Of Wolf And Man
by Pyreiris
Summary: Philip is a man who would love to put his past in the past, not relive it every night when he closes his eyes. He longs for a life of happiness, to pursue his studies and perhaps someday, start a family. One thing stands between him and those goals. His own need to avenge the murder of his mother
1. Chapter 1

**Of Wolf And Man -Part One**

_It is late in the day, long beams of light slanting through the trees as I hurry home. Digging in my heels, I pull the heavy cart over the last rise and see the roof of home through the trees. As I approach, a forlorn cry comes from the house–my baby brother Elijah probably complaining that he wanted to be picked up as usual._

_Rolling the cart right up to the front door, I grab an armload of flour sacks, calling over my shoulder, "Ma, I'm home! Are Pa and the boys back yet?" I push into the house and set my load down._

_No answer from Ma, but perhaps she is out back. A shrill cry sounds from the bedroom, trailing off into a hiccuping sob. I push open the door, and find my brother sitting on the floor, tear-stained face bunched up in preparation for another cry. His brown eyes light up for a moment when he sees me, then the slobbery fist goes back to his eyes and he tilts his head back to let out another howl._

_I swoop him up, wondering why he is sitting here by himself like this, he's plainly been crying a while. Upon picking him up I find his nappies a sodden mess. Of course, that would explain the normally cheerful lad's displeasure. It is unlike Ma to let him sit and stew in his own mess, though. "Ma, I have 'Lijah," I call and swiftly strip the toddler of his stinky clothes, wipe his little bum clean and redress him._

_Ruffling his blonde hair, I scoop him up. "Let's go see what Ma has cooking for supper." I sniff, realizing I don't smell anything cooking. Normally she has something bubbling away in the pot by now, but I know that life has a way of inserting new tasks and chores into a routine with no concern for how it may disrupt the schedule. She is probably just cleaning out the animal shed and has lost track of time._

_Elijah clings to my side, running pudgy, soggy fingers over my cheek, babbling in his soft baby voice while I walk out to the garden. The buzz of insects in the garden greet my ears, flies, bees, eager crickets, chirring loudly. The gate is open, and I can see the goat in there, voraciously stripping vegetation off the berry bushes, while the chickens decimate the peas. Ma is going to have a fit._

_Ella the goat sees me and decides to see if I have my usual pail of slops from the kitchen. I glance into the animal shed, but there is no sign of Ma. Maybe she's just having a long sit in the outhouse. I turn to look, but the door is ajar, the privy quite empty._

_A sudden buzzing jerks my attention back to the garden. Ella flicks her long ears and marches through the sudden swarm of flies that thicken the air. Something inside of me freezes._

_There shouldn't be that many flies. There just shouldn't be. "Ma?"_

_Ella bumps her nose into my knee, startling me. Suddenly the quiet is unnerving. No, not unnerving—it is terrifying. The flies are already settling back down, the drone of their wings quieting but not dropping away entirely. Now that I can hear the buzz of those flies, it's all I can hear. Not my baby brother burbling around his fist, not the goat bleating her displeasure. Just the flies._

_"Ma?" I call out, voice catching in my throat. "Ma, are you in the garden?" Slowly, I edge past the gate, not wanting to look, I have a terrible idea of what I will find. Bracing myself, summoning all my will, I glance down the rows. It is worse than I could ever imagine, and I curl myself protectively around my baby brother, biting back the scream. Much worse, and soon the scream comes and pours out, tearing past my vocal cords to grate at the air. The anguish follows me down to the ground as I black out, swirling 'round, never easing up, tracking me back up into wakefulness as I bolt upright._

* * *

The nightmare may have ended, but the guilt would be my constant companion for the rest of my life. I rolled over, tugging the furs higher over my bare shoulder, punched the pillow to fluff it, flipped it to the cool side, and settled in. I tossed, turned, and finally gave up and lit a candle, blinking furiously in the sudden brightness. It didn't matter that I was awake and no longer dreaming; the emotions, the memories lingered so close to the surface of my thoughts that it still felt like it all happened yesterday.

I got up and pace my small room, stepping to the nightstand lave my face with cool water. It didn't help; my blood was too hot. I stared into the cracked mirror, contemplating the man gazing back. "You should have been there," I accused him. It was no good, he fired it right back at me.

_You_ should _have been there, Philip. No one but yourself to blame. Maybe if you had come straight back like you said. Maybe if you had hurried a little more. Maybe if you hadn't stopped to refill your water skin. Maybe if you had thought ahead and bought flour earlier in the month. Maybe . . . maybe . . . if . . ._

My mind raced in circles. With a soft growl I forced myself to breathe deep. This long since Ma was murdered and I still ended up feeling like a lost child from time to time, especially when the dreams came. I meditated quietly for several hours and felt as rested as I ever could, my thoughts once more calm and focused.

Ready to resume my studies, I opened the tome in front of me, reading by the magical light I conjured. Eventually I could no longer ignore the pinched gurgling sounds coming from my belly, and I went upstairs in search of something hot to eat. Stepping into the common room of the Frozen Hearth, I saw that the sun was just peeking over the horizon. By my estimate, I had been up four hours. I took my usual place and ordered breakfast from Haran, thinking about the dig I'd be heading out to later. Maybe the memories wouldn't be able to find me so easily, deep in a Dwemer ruin. I realized I had been staring at the yolks of my eggs for too long. Finding the now cold remains unappetizing, I pushed the plate away and rose.

Dagur and Eirid greeted me, and I nodded politely and headed back to the cellar where I was bunked for the time being. I dressed for my journey and grabbed my satchel and sword. As I stepped out into the frigid air, I forced myself to put aside the past once more. I couldn't afford to be distracted on this mission; others had already been hurt, and I wouldn't let anyone else come to harm on my watch. The others were late making their way across the narrow bridges that linked the College of Winterhold to the mainland. I am normally patient, but this morning I was anxious. While I waited, I adjusted the many buckles and straps of my armor to disguise the restlessness. By the time they finally arrived, holding already sodden hems out of the slush, I was prepared to guard a handful of novice mages on their first foray into a dwarven ruin.

"My name is Philip. The college has asked me to guide you to the dig and to protect you and your findings. I will also be participating in the actual research. It's best you understand I've been trekking the wilds for nearly twenty years now, so while we travel together, you will listen to me and follows my instructions to the letter. If you do, we'll all make it back alive. Questions?"

The Khajiit in the back raised his hand, then spoke out in his soft raspy voice, "J'Zargo is no mewling kitten who needs to be nursed along. J'Zargo is powerful mage. Who does this one think he is to 'guide' and 'protect?' Has the pretty Breton mastered expert level destruction magics yet?"

I disliked being called pretty by anyone, but I bit back the irritation and and as professionally as I could, "Yes, I have. Hopefully a demonstration won't be required on our journey. The Arch-Mage himself interviewed me and deemed me worthy. I trust that will be satisfactory to all of you; now shall we get moving?"

The student mages nodded and mumbled, trudging down the streets after me in a long, strung-out line. This would never do. "Tighten up the line, lads and lasses, and pick up your feet; we don't want to get caught in the pass at dark. Trolls will eat you tender bits right up." As they straggled up to where I waited, I couldn't help but think, this is going to take a while.

* * *

Three weeks later I finally found my way back to civilization. Or rather, Winterhold. The desolate little town had little in the way of charm to speak for it, but I liked it. The innkeeper, Haran, let me room in the cellar where I could study quietly and no patrons would complain about me screaming in my sleep. Proximity to the college and the resources there made it an ideal location for me.

When I entered the warm inn, Eirid called out to me, "Philip, you got a letter; it's on your bed. I promise I didn't try to read it this time."

"I'm sure you didn't. Anyone new to play with in town?"

"No, just Assur." Her little face fell into mournful contemplation.

"He still making you be the Elf?" I asked. She came over and gave me a little hug.

"Always. I tried to get him to play another game, but he just won't."

"Perhaps someday he'll surprise you and want to play a different game. Be patient, little one; you're a good friend." I ruffled her hair, and she ducked away laughing. I bought a few bottles of mead and went downstairs. I spotted the letter right away, recognized the handwriting on the front. I dropped the letter on the table and opened a bottle of mead, draining most of it in a few long swallows that left my eyes watering.

I set my bottle near the letter and stripped off my shoulder pauldron and harness, then hung them up. I drained the rest of the first bottle while I washed up and changed into clean clothes. Finally out of reasonable ways to put it off, I picked up the letter from my brother and opened it, sipping the second bottle as I read,

_I hope this letter finds you well. Thought you might be interested to know that some friends and I have had contact with the bastards responsible for Mother's death. I intend to hunt down every last one of them if I can. If you want to join me, I am living in Whiterun now; you can find me at the house next to Warmaiden's, right inside the city gate. Hurry, I want to hit them hard and soon._  
_-Sullevan_

_P.S. Pa sends his love. You should write him more often._

_P.P.S I also just found out I am the Dragonborn. Beat that, big brother!_

I read it three times, just to be sure I hadn't missed something-like a punchline. This whole letter felt like a kick to the gut. For years he and I had tried to track down the band responsible for killing Ma and had found nothing. A part of me had resigned myself to not ever resolving the matter, but this . . . this was an unexpected opportunity that I wasn't about to pass up.

I leaned back and shifted my thoughts to his other news. _Dragonborn. How in Oblivion that happened_? I decided not to worry about that one too much right now. If he was, there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. All I could do is try to keep an eye on him. After all, he was a grown man now, not the boy I grew up with. I wonder if he's told Pa about that yet? I was sure we'd talk about it when I got to Whiterun.

Tired, I lay down, hoping to escape the nightmares, the restless visions of the hunt. Nineteen years of exhaustion loomed heavy and weighed me down, but true rest still eluded me. Instead, I found myself wading deeper and deeper into memory as the dreams overtook me.

* * *

_Wet hands and piercing cries rouse me. Elijah is slapping my face with his little palms, struggling in my arms. Confused, I wonder a moment why I'm on the ground outside. Then I hear the flies. Oh gods damn, what am I supposed to do? Pa? Pa, where in Oblivion are you, I need you!_

_As if sent by the divines in answer, I hear the sound of shouts coming from the road. Shit! I scramble up, still clutching Elijah, and race on wobbly legs around to the front._

_"Pa! Grab the boys, grab them! There's been -" Fuck, how do I explain? I don't even know what happened myself. I just can't let the boys find her. They don't ever need to see that._

_"Philip, calm yourself. What's wrong? Where is your mother?" He has an iron grip on Relian's shirt, so Lazare will of course stick close, and is holding a scowling Sullevan by the upper arm._

_I pass Elijah to Sullevan. "He's hungry. Go feed the boys; there are bread and cheese on the table. I need to talk to Pa."_

_Sullevan takes the baby but demands, "Who died and put you in charge?"_

_Pa must have seen something on my face, because he interrupts before I can punch my younger brother. "Do as your told, boy. All of you go inside and wash up." He waited until the twins followed Sullevan inside then spun me about. "Spit it out son."_

_I feel tears well up, and my chest feels so tight, I can't find the words. Part of me irrationally thinks if I don't speak, it won't be real. "I left; she asked me to go get more flour and supplies. When I got back . . . Pa, she's been murdered. Out in the garden is where I found her. Elijah was in the house."_

_Pa spins on his heel and races for the garden. I follow slowly, not wanting to see again, but I know my father is going to need me to be strong somehow. His agonized howl echoes around the unnaturally quiet farm. The front door creaks open and Sullevan pokes his head out._

_"Stay inside, and for the love of the gods, keeps the twins inside," I tell him. Sullevan, at the age of thirteen, looks as though he might argue, but something must have warned him not to push his luck and he nods. I wipe clammy hands on my pant legs and go to help my pa somehow._

_He is sobbing, leaning against the fence, head on his forearms. "Pa, I'll go into town and get the guard so they can start looking for whoever did this."_

_"No."_

_"No? What do you mean, no? We need to get the guard here; mother has been murdered!"_

_"No, we are not. We bury her tonight and leave tomorrow; you boys aren't safe here anymore."_

_"I don't understand, Pa. Why aren't we bringing someone up to investigate?"_

_"Your mother didn't have many secrets son, but there was one she hid from all of you, from me at one point. I guess your old enough and you need to know why. She was a werewolf, Philip-"_

_"How could you say that, she's your wife and now she's dead; how dare you speak ill of her! She is not a man-eating monster-" my emotions let my mouth flap before I can really think about what I say._

_His fingers cracked across my cheek, rocking my head to the side. "You're the one who just called her a monster. Now, get yourself together. We bury her and pack up a few things after."_

_"Why do we have to leave?"_

_"Because they will probably come back, the Silver Hand. Werewolf hunters."_

_Dazed, I help my father gather up her remains and wrap them in a sheet hung out to dry earlier. Underneath her favorite apple tree, my father and I laboriously dig a hole. Mechanically I dig, trying to focus my thoughts into making sure it's deep enough. I have to straighten the sides; this is after all where my beautiful Ma will rest. Deeper I dig, continuing when my father takes a moment to rest, scraping the sides. I'm not doing this to bury my mother. No, it's for the grief and the memories of what I saw; can it ever go far enough down? Deeper, down goes my mother's grave. My pa reaches a hand down, blocking out the dim light. Not ever deep enough._

_"That's deep enough," he says to me. I stop digging and reach for his hand, but it's too far away, so I shrug and keep digging into the moist black earth. Never deep enough for the shame._

* * *

_Well, it has been a long time since I've posted anything. This is the first chapter in a story a I wrote for an amazing artist and over all beautiful person. She paints and draws the most mouthwatering men. You should check out her page on DeviantArt- She allowed me take her brain children and write about them, for which I am grateful. Thank you PickleCharming for lending me your babies.  
_

_Thank you so much for reading. As always, if you like my works, please leave reviews, favorite or follow! Cheers, ~Pyreiris_


	2. Chapter 2

**Of Wolf And Man -Part Two**

That damned cocktail of memory and dream was a rotten way to wake up. In my bones I could tell there would be no sleep, not even a mockery of rest for me tonight. So be it; I cracked my eyes open, and sure enough, it was still well before sunrise. Tonight's dream wasn't even accurate. When Pa told me he wanted to pack us all up, I turned and ran off, thinking somehow a nineteen-year-old farm boy could hunt down the Silver Hand and avenge my mother. Nineteen years after I bolted, I might actually be able to make that a reality.

Dawn found me packed and ready to go. Eirid waved goodbye, but no one else was awake yet, so I slipped out quietly. A few hours on foot, and then I would take a carriage from Windhelm to Whiterun. Eyes open for danger, I headed for the pass.

Windhelm came into view at last, and as I made my way down the last stretch of road before the city, the wind picked up, biting and full of chill teeth. Wrapping my fur cloak tight over my shoulders, I made my way to the stables. Immediately, I noticed the absence of the carriage. The stable master informed me that the carriage left earlier in the day with a few travelers and should be back in a day or two.

Faced with the option of waiting or walking, I chose something warm to eat and drink while I made up my mind and headed into town. The Candlehearth Hall was as nice an inn as anywhere in the province, with good food, warm beds and friendly people. I ordered a bowl of stew and a few bottles of mead to wash it down, then took my repast upstairs to a table by the fireplace.

A Dunmer bard played softly in the back corner, her voice sweet and full of sorrow. I listened while I ate, enjoying her strong voice and skilled playing. She wasn't the best bard I'd heard, but she clearly loved her craft. The stew was excellent, so I headed back for another helping. While waiting to get my bowl refilled, a loud voice and the bang of the door upstairs echoed through the inn. The innkeeper handed me my bowl with a wink and a smile, sliding an extra loaf of crusty bread over the counter with it.

"Strong lad like you needs to keep his strength up. Here you go, handsome."

My eyes hit the floor as I turned away with my food, feeling the heat of a blush warming the tops of my cheeks. I never knew how to take it when women flirted with me. A part of me assumed they were being mean-spirited, teasing me in a roundabout fashion. The scar that ran across the bridge of my nose and under my eyes wouldn't ever be pretty, and I could always feel the gaze of women lingering on it, always hear the sly whispers.

The other part of me knew that ladies were drawn to me. I've been told I have beautiful eyes. I rarely looked in the mirror other than to shave, and I knew the clear, pale blue is attractive, but the rest? Best not to spend to long worrying at it.

A hard shoulder slammed into mine as I carefully carried my bowl back up to my seat. Hissing quietly through my teeth, I fought the impulse to drop the stew as the steaming contents washed over my fingers. "Pardon me," I mumbled, but received nothing in return. Some people just have no manners.

I made it back to my seat with no further incident and could finally suck the gravy from my scalded fingers. Settling back down, I smiled to the pretty bard, Luaffyn.

I was the only one upstairs right now, so it felt as though the lady sang just for me, her fiery gaze holding mine. The song lifted and dipped, her voice holding me captive. She wasn't just singing to fill the quiet; she sang because she loved her music and she had an attentive audience.

Someone stomped up the stairs, swearing and belching, an unwelcome counterpoint to the lovely moment I was enjoying. Luaffyn's voice dropped in volume, and I noticed her gaze flit nervously to the Nord who had just dropped himself down nearby, still speaking volubly to his companion.

I sighed-it had been a nice moment. I nodded encouragement to Luaffyn, but she finished her song and switched to a small wooden flute.

The presence of the two rude and unsurprisingly drunk Nords helped me make up my mind. I took my bowl downstairs and purchased a few supplies from Elda, then headed back upstairs intending to drop a coin or two into Luaffyn's cup before heading back out.

"Damn gray-skin, no one here wants to listen to you whine on. Why don't you take your little flute and play for the rest of your filthy breed?"

I came to a halt on the stairs, listening, feeling the blood that swiftly heated into a boiling rage. _How dare they_?

"This is the only way I can earn coin-" she protested.

"Do it somewhere else, gray-skin."

"Miss Elda says I can play here-"

"You not listening, bitch? Get out; you're not wanted."

I found myself right behind them a moment later, "Quite to the contrary, I was enjoying the music. Perhaps you could apologize to the lady; I'm sure you didn't intend to insult her when she is only doing her job."

"You an elf lover, arsehole? I can say any damn thing I want to her, pretty-boy." He squinted up, then rose from his chair to face me, a belligerent grin on his unshaven face.

Breathing deep I fought back the impulse to throttle the lout right there. "I was merely suggesting that you allow the bard to continue without further rude interruptions."

"So I'm rude, eh? Well this is Skyrim, and I'll say anything I want. Skyrim belongs to the Nords, not gray-skins or girly, Breton elf lovers. Got a problem with that?" He stepped up close to me, and his rancid breath washed over me, smelling like a month-old tankard of ale.

"You've clearly already had a few, and I have no wish to fight a drunk bully," I tried to reason with him. "Just leave the bard alone; she's harming no one."

"I could take you in my sleep! Have at you!" The man's fist went up to wobble around his chin. It was almost funny, except for the malice that burned in his eyes and the presence of his somewhat less inebriated friend directly behind me.

"Rolff, take it outside," warned Elda from the stairwell. "If you trash my inn one more time, you're banned for good. It won't matter that you're the brother to the jarl's right-hand man. I'm tired of you harassing my customers."

Rolff shrugged and pushed his way out the door, closely followed by his friend. I pulled on my gauntlets, dropped a few coins into Luaffyn's hand, then followed them out, hoping to avoid a confrontation. I didn't want to explain to the guards–

A fist rocked my head to the side, crunching painfully into my jaw, and I tasted blood. Son of a–I rolled with the punch and spun around to find Rolff grinning at me, advancing with his fists up again. Furious with myself for letting my guard down, I blocked the next few blows he pitched my way, which seemed to infuriate him as he watched his fists go sliding past my body.

He launched himself wildly at me, so I stepped to the side and stuck out a foot. He tripped over my boot and sprawled in the gray slush, cursing. His friend decided to enter the argument, but one or two punches and he backed away, nursing a new black eye and split lip. While my back was turned, Rolff picked himself from the ground, then rounded on me once more, swearing profusely. Sick of the game, I absorbed a few hits, then hit him with a flurry of powerful blows that finally drove him to the ground.

By this time, the guards had shown up and were moving in. "Break it up, we'll have no brawling on the streets. Do we need to lock you all up?" One of the guards looked me over suspiciously.

"Rolff, is there trouble?" he asked while squinting at me.

"Nay, just settling a little dispute like men. We're finished." He picked himself up and surprisingly smiled at me. "Well fought. I respect a man who will back up his beliefs with action. I suppose I can tolerate the bard a bit longer." He clapped me on the back like we were old friends and walked off.

"Best move on, stranger," offered one of the guards. I decided that sounded like good advice and shouldered my pack, headed for the gates. I flexed my jaw; it was going to hurt a bit, but I'd live. One of these days I'd learn to keep my mouth shut when trouble reared its ugly head. Truthfully, I doubted that would ever happen.

If I stuck to the roads, it was about a two-day walk to Whiterun. I picked up the pace and headed south, peering through the flurries of snow that periodically drifted down. Minor delays and inconvenient ambushes by inept bandits aside, I made good time and was able to talk the owner of a small farm into letting me bed down in the barn in exchange for an hour of chopping wood. I chopped for two hours, then stacked it, before collapsing on my bedroll. Any hope of physical exhaustion bringing a deep restful sleep flitted away as I tossed and turned. Sometimes the guilt just won't be shut out.

Nineteen years later, and I still beat myself up because I wasn't there when the Silver Hand found and mutilated her-cutting off her arms, legs, and head then planting them in the garden with the beans and carrots. I discovered later that if I had been there, I would have been overwhelmed myself and likely joined my mother in an early grave. That matters little; a part of me would always whisper that maybe it might have saved her life if I had been there.

These thoughts followed me into the fitful sleep that finally settled over me.

* * *

_Carefully, I duck through the brush, keeping my eyes open for any sign of the men I track. I've been trying to pinpoint the location of their hideout for a week, but I know I'm close. I peer in the direction of the trail I've been watching for the last day, trying to make out any details. The slightest crunching of a leaf behind me is my only warning; suddenly I feel the cold point of a blade at my back._

_"Nice and slow, now; stand up with your hands out," rasps the man holding the blade. "What you think you're doing nosing 'bout, huh? You wouldn't be thinking 'bout robbing us, would you?"_

_My mind racing, I try to cover, hoping for an opportunity to get away or overpower him. "No, I heard there were bandits nearby and I'm just looking to stay out of their way. I'm not here to steal."_

_"Why you out here in the first place? Answer quick and true!" I feel the point of the blade press a little harder. Thinking furiously, I say the only thing I can think of that might prolong my life and further my hopes of revenge._

_"I – I'm here to join the Silver Hand! A monster killed my mother and I heard that the Silver Hand hunt and kill them! I want to be a werewolf hunter."_

_"Well that may be, or it might not be. I'll let the boss decide what to do with you. Down to the trail and no sudden moves or I'll run you through, no questions."_

_I find myself being herded down to the trail, then we turn and follow it a few hundred yards before encountering another man, a lookout, crouched near a cave entrance._

_The guard turns aside and spits out a large wet gobbet of something, then says, "What's this, then, catch a thief sniffin' about?"_

_"Says he wants to join, but he was nosing in the bushes trying not to be seen. I say let the boss sort him out."_

_"Sounds proper. Here boy, let me 'ave a look at ya." The other man stands and ambles my way, picking his teeth. He gives the man behind me a signal, and before I can form a question, a blinding pain overtakes my senses and all I see is blackness._

_I wake with a pounding headache. I try to touch the back of my head but find I can't reach; iron manacles hold my arms to the sides. The pain in my head is extraordinary, both pounding behind my eyes and piercing needles of it radiating from the back of my skull._

_Further investigation tells me my ankles are also bound tightly, chained to a simple loop of steel driven into the floor. I am a captive of the Silver Hand. My surroundings tell me a little of what I'm probably in for. Worktables drip blood, gory tools are scattered about, chains with tufts of fur still clinging to them hung from the walls, and flanking the passageway up to the surface are two spikes, each with a severed werewolf head impaled on it. Barred cells nearby have live, snarling werewolves pacing in them, eyes burning with fury._

_One look around is enough to fill me with horror, and I never want to see the atrocities before me again. But I am forced to kneel, in dreadful agony, and either close my eyes to the horrors I can see and let my imagination run wild or keep my eyes open and try to find a spot on the wall that isn't flecked with dried blood._

_My throat is parched and the pain in my head is only growing worse. I wait and silently lament not being more cautious. I can't tell how long I'm made to kneel, but finally voices ring out nearby, and soon there are several people looming tall over me._

_A gloved hand lifts my chin, and I find myself gazing into the hard stare of a middle-aged Nord woman. The lines on her face frame her scowl of displeasure, but her muddy brown eyes light up a little as she examines my features._

_"You're a pretty one, aren't you? I might let you live just because you're handsome." She gives a short rasp of laughter, then turns to one of the men nearby. "Get answers, but leave his face alone."_

_The questions fly one after the other after that, and if I don't answer quickly enough, I receive a kick to the side, a savage blow to the kidneys, back, legs; whatever will cause the most pain._

_"Why are you spying on us?"_

_"Do you consort with werewolves?"_

_"Where are the others? Tell me where the werewolves are!"_

_In spite of it all, somehow I stick to my story. I don't even know why; they will probably kill me soon anyhow, now that I've seen their hideout. I realize how foolish it –no, I was-to rush away from home as I did._

_The beating continues until I can barely think; then without warning it stops. Through a haze of agony I regard my captors, unsmiling brutes all of them._

_"He's not giving us much. You want us to hurt him more or let him stew a bit?" one of them asks._

_"Let him stew in one of the cages for a bit. I'm expecting a few of the others back any time now," indifferently replies the woman who seemed to be in charge. She exits the stinking chamber, leaving me alone with the brutes. I am unchained from the floor and thrown into a small cell, empty but for a molding pile of straw. Laughing to each other, the men lock the bars behind me and leave me, shivering, bleeding and bruised. My throat is still dry and raw, but my captors clearly give not one skeever's shit about my comfort._

_Exhausted, humiliated, overwhelmed by grief and fear, I shove myself into the corner of my cell and try shut it out, wrestling within myself—all the ifs and maybes and should-haves assaulting my battered mind, preventing rest for my equally battered body. Eventually my mind gives up and blanks out, for a short time._

_The squealing of the iron hinges as the gate to my cell opens jerks me awake once more._

* * *

_I would like to take a moment here and sing the poorly worded praises of a woman who exemplifies the word "Awesome." Wendy is my editor. I wish I could pay her with monies and not internet cookies. She is ruthless and kind all at the same time, and my stories would be worthy of the recycle bin at most if it wasn't for her support. She is a wonderful writer and author, and I humbly suggest that if you have not already, go read her stories here- Whisper292 _

_Don't forget, your comments and reviews are the only payment I get for writing these, so if you like it, please leave a few words or clicky-click the fave button! Cheers,  
_

_~Pyreiris_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Eight- I Could Have Worded That Better**

During the last two weeks, Laurelin and Farkas had gone out on several small local jobs, often taking Torvar with them, in an attempt to keep busy. When they were at home, Laure introduced the big man to the routine of exercises she and Vilkas had adopted up on the heights of High Hrothgar.

Farkas took to it with ease, enjoying the closeness and camaraderie that came with the practice. When they needed more strenuous exercise, they strapped on armor and practiced with blades. He was still training her, bringing her skills to a honed sharpness. Although she was a dynamic fighter, she was the first to admit she needed to improve in many areas.

Bickering amiably back and forth one day, Farkas reminded her, "You should practice with your greatsword more this week. Last time we sparred I had your back in seconds. "

"I will, but that ugly thing just isn't my style, brother."

"Make it your style then, and don't tell me it's too big. You're bigger now, stronger too. Shouldn't be a problem. Vilkas has been going light on you, and it won't do you any favors in the end."

"I always feel off balance with it, no matter how much I train. As soon as I swing the damned thing, I'm ready to fall over!"

"Balance is important, but you know that. Maybe we just need to get you a lighter two-handed weapon. Glass is pretty light."

"Perhaps, but it all feels the same when I'm wobbling around. I'll shop around for something suitable, I guess." Thinking about glass greatswords made her think about Vilkas. Laurelin bit back the worry that was threatening to overtake her. He was still in The Reach with Ria, and the reports coming back from that region were not comforting. The Forsworn were particularly active this year, raiding settlements that had been ignored for years, swarming through the stony hills in huge numbers, abducting people for inscrutable reasons. They were only supposed to have been gone a week, and now as the second week drew to a close, panic was seeping into the Dragonborn's mind.

Her mate was a very capable fighter, smart and intuitive. But her mate was not perfect, and she hoped he hadn't been caught up in something he wasn't prepared to handle. The urge to go hunting for her lover was strong, but she still had faith he would return.

Sighing, she blew out a long breath. "So I thought I would practice with the scimitars I took out of that cave the other day, I've never fought with curved swords before, I wonder how different it is."

Farkas snorted. "It's just not natural. Who fights with curved swords? Crazy people do, that's who."

"Do I not meet some requirement of crazy?"

"No, I'm sure you'll be great with them. I think you're just that kind of insane." His steely gaze left hers and flitted over her shoulder. She turned to see what had caught his attention. A young courier was hesitantly edging up to the two Companions, satchel in hand, wearing nothing but a hat, loincloth, and boots.

"I have a letter for the Harbinger, your eyes only."

Laurelin held out her hand and tried not smile too much. The poor lad must be freezing.

"Why are you naked?" Farkas was blunt as always but not unconcerned. He just didn't usually think to reword or filter himself. Tact was not always foremost on his mind.

The courier clutched his letter bag tighter, as his gaze flew back and forth between the mer and giant of a man. "I was attacked out on the road, the vile menaces took my clothes. All I managed to escape with was this satchel."

"Well, you were fortunate to escape with your life as well," responded Laure as she turned the missive over in her hands. "You wouldn't be the first person mugged for your boots. You're not even the first naked courier I've seen. Sit down and have a bite to eat, I'll see about finding you some clothing."

"I should really be going-more messages to deliver you see."

"Sit, I won't take no for an answer. I don't bite, but he does..." Farkas snickered and passed a mug of mead the courier's way. Looking undecided, the man finally sat and sipped the proffered drink.

Laure broke the seal on her letter and read, a thoughtful expression settling quickly over her face, though Farkas could feel her relief. "He's alive; he just got caught up in some other related business, so he should be home within the next few days. That is a relief. So shall we see about finding some clothes for this poor fellow?"

Farkas mumbled a general agreement, hoisting his bulk from the bench. "Yeah, there should be some clothes downstairs. I'll go check. Glad we don't have to hunt my brother down after all. You should get to practicing, Laure."

"I'll get to it. You just find something warm for our friend here." She turned her eery, pale gaze the courier's way, and he shifted his satchel over his lap a little, trying for modesty, not knowing she couldn't care less whether he was clothed or not while he sat there. "Where are you going next in such a hurry that you don't have time to wait for proper clothes? By the way, you never answered; have you eaten?" She piled a plate full of fruit, cheese, bread and a heaping portion of Tilma's delicious venison stew, ignoring his half-hearted protests.

The man finally set to gratefully, face a mask of pleasure as he sampled the fare. Clearing his throat after a few bites, he replied, "I have one letter bound for Windhelm and another for Ivarstead. After that I will have return messages I imagine, so it'll be back to Markarth, most probably."

"I see. How long ago were you hired to deliver my letter?"

"The day before yesterday. I left immediately; he paid me extra to get it to you by today, you see." He seemed vaguely proud to have made it in spite of his misfortune on the road. "Thank you for your kindness. I don't have coin any more to purchase new clothing; my purse was in my pants."

"So you were robbed of your coin as well? Wait here; I'll be right back." She strode into Jorrvaskr and returned moments later with Farkas following. The big Nord man set a pile of folded clothing near the courier and dropped back down on the bench. Laure for her part set a small pouch of gold in front of the courier, and then another, and another. The couriers jaw dropped as he eyed the three purses.

"Each purse has a few hundred gold; that should compensate you for what was lost and hopefully a bit more. Thank you for bringing this letter to me. It came from someone I dearly needed to know was alive, and you brought it to me in spite of your trouble."

"Just doing my duty, Harbinger. You have my own thanks once more." He pulled the top pair of trousers toward him before Laure stepped away to let him dress.

"Not at all. When you are dressed, I would like very much if you could show us the the general location of where you were attacked."

"It was not far from the Broken Fang. A mile or so west of it. There were two of them, an Orsimer and a Nord. I can only imagine they must have been desperate to take my clothes. I guess the letters weren't important enough." He talked as he tried clothes on, quickly finding things that would suit until he made it to a shop.

"I must say I'm glad they _didn't_ have interest in them." She exchanged meaningful glances with Farkas. When the smiling courier was ready to leave, she bade him farewell and then lifted her brow in silent question to her hulking shield-brother.

"Oh yeah, I agree. Let me get my gear. We should probably check and make sure the vampires haven't moved back into the Broken Fang while we're out that far." He ducked inside and came back out moments later, pack thrown over his shoulder, a sweet-roll wedged into his mouth. "Leshgo," he slurred around the pastry. Laure turned from where she was examining the heft of the twin scimitars she intended to master.

"About time, I'd say," she sniped playfully, sheathing her new blades with a flourish and a smile.

* * *

"So, Laure, you haven't talked to Vilkas about, uh, stuff yet have you?" ventured Farkas once they were out on the tundra. They trotted side by side over the rolling, damp grass

Laure knew what he meant by "stuff" but would rather have danced around the topic. "No, I haven't. I suppose I should, though. Oh, don't give me that look." She knew he was giving her the little frown, complete with forehead crinkle. That, combined with the sad look in his brilliant eyes, and Laure couldn't help but relent. She was such a sap sometimes. "You're right, I'll tell him! Just stop lecturing me like that!" She grinned and skipped ahead a pace, then turned to stare him in face, solemnly asking, "What do you think he will say?"

"I dunno. He loves you, Laurelin. But he has no respect for thieves. Says there is no honor in taking what isn't ours."

"While that may be true, we loot people we kill almost every day, Farkas. Some would say we steal their lives, which is worse. How do you-do we-rationalize that? Where is the honor in stealing anyone's most valuable possession-life?"

"Laure, how can you talk like that? We fight the people who go out just killing and hurting other people. Those are the people we kill, and sure, we loot their shit. But they were people who lived off other people and hurt everyone. You know how it is."

"Indeed, I do. The fact is we never know the whole story when we deal with bandits, necromancers, vampires, thieves. There is always more. We can only understand what we have seen and experienced. We don't know why people do things, yet we are constantly forced to act and react without full knowledge. How do we know we are right to end a person's life?"

"Usually when they attack first is a good sign," retorted Farkas irritably.

Head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut, Laure laughed, "That sums it up nicely, truth be told. I won't ever fault a person for fighting to keep their life, nor the lives of their loved ones. Back to the original topic though, how angry do you think he'll be to find out about my associates?"

"Are you really a thief, Laure?"

"Aye, I am. Not only am I a rotten, thieving scoundrel, I am the Guild Master. For what it's worth."

"You're what? All I've ever seen you do is give."

"I _am_ the Thieves Guild Master, Farkas. I run it-well, I did—with lots of help. Mostly I've turned it over to the others these days; I just can't be there. And if I want anyone to trust me as the Dragonborn, well, I can't be too closely associated with the Guild. I'm already on rotten ice for being a mer."

"So you must be a really good thief, huh? Want to try to steal something from me? Just to see if you can?"

Laure slapped his chest with her open palm. "There, you can have your heart back!"

Farkas reeled back in mock pain, clutching his chest. "Aaah, I can feel again! Why? Take it back, I don't want it anymore!"

Laure pounced on him, "See, try to do the right thing..." His arms folded tightly around her and his solid bulk cushioned them as they hit the ground with a small thump. She laid her head on his broad chest, listening to his breath and heart for a few moments.

"He'll be upset, but I don't think he'll be able to stay mad. He adores you like none other. Just be honest with him, and leave the rest for time to sort out." Her shield-brother's deep voice rumbled pleasantly in her ear. Eventually Farkas rolled them over and they lay side by side quietly thinking in the grass a moment longer before they decided to get back on the road.

* * *

A mile or so down the road, both Laure and Farkas caught the first whiff of vampire. Although it was broad daylight, the two of them circled the craggy spire of rock with caution. Broken Fang cave was a longstanding hideout for the bloodsuckers, and its relative proximity to the road made it a dangerous area for common travelers.

They were able to sniff out a handful of separate scents from the cave. Without words, they decided to come back later with reinforcements. They trotted on, slinking through the brush now, near the area the courier had been accosted by a couple of bandits. Two keen noses sniffed the air, soon locating a pair of scents.

Patiently, Farkas and Laure stalked through the folded hills and meadows, surveying the small camp from afar. Two men lounged about the squalid camp, bickering sporadically then lapsing into sullen silence. From the looks of it, these were most likely the men who had assaulted the courier, but Laure wanted to be sure.

While she and Farkas were laying flat in the grass, a small doe wandered near the camp, grabbing the attention of the two men. They scurried to shoot the deer, yet their wild shots simply scared their prey off, and the two men set to bickering once more, this time not settling down in volume.

"Idiot! You should have held your shot until it was closer!"

"At least I had my shot lined up. You were fumbling like a child with a toy bow!" The argument escalated from there; and within seconds, they were drawing blades on each other, circling and issuing threats and taunts. Blades met with a clash that echoed loudly about the small clearing.

Laure and Farkas watched from a safe distance, bemused and at the same time horrified. They had known there was a chance they would need to kill a few bandits, but hadn't counted on their quarry doing the job for them. Within a fairly short amount of time, both men fell gasping and bleeding to the ground, still feebly trying to stab each other one last time.

Laure couldn't take it any longer and rose to one knee, took aim with her bow and finished both men. There was no sport, nor glory to such an end, but she just couldn't sit and spectate any longer while they flailed at each other. She turned to see Farkas hoisting himself up, a glum expression on his face.

"Well, that's done. What say we get back to town and round up reinforcements to clear out some bloodsuckers?" She shouldered her bow, looking east toward home. She wished she and Farkas were a bit more prepared; she was eager to finish the vampires in Broken Fang cave while she was out this far. But she knew it would be wiser to come back with more blades. _Two werewolves is more than enough to take out a few vampires and their thralls..._

Farkas said over his shoulder, "Your right, we could. Vilkas would be pissed, though. Too bad he's not back yet. We could really tear into 'em!" They loped a wide circle around the vampire lair with the lowering sun at their backs.

* * *

Laure stood on the front steps of Jorrvaskr, eyes closed. Her mind was roaming far, her senses and thoughts cast wide, searching for a hint of her returning lover. Her patience was rewarded finally; a flash of light far away at the edges of her inner sight. Soon it was rushing toward her, still far, but hurrying now. It was almost like she could hear his voice already. _I've missed you...I'm hurrying...I'm on my way...soon._

Laure turned her head and opened her eyes, meeting Farkas' bright gaze. "I got it covered here. Go. Don't break a leg, though." She was already halfway down the stairs, then skipping around the Gildergreen, which was now blooming in riotous profusion.

"Be back soon, brother!" she called back as she slipped around the scrum of people that had formed on the top of the steps leading to the Plains district. Moments later she was leaping atop Roast, bareback, nudging the mare into a swift gallop. They flew the first mile down the road, but then Laure eased off and let Roast pick her own pace, which turned out to be a quick ground-eating trot that pleased Laure as well. Soon she could smell him, near and yet still a few miles off.

Unerringly they raced toward each other, crossing hills, cutting off a loop of the road to streak toward their lovers' arms. With a jingle of the harnesses and triumphant whoops, they finally met. Vilkas turned his horse to the side, let her sidle up next to him. His strong arms opened and she leaned over, let him scoop her from the back of her horse and cradle her across his lap. She buried her nose under his chin and breathed in his smoke and pine and blood scent, eyes closed blissfully.

His fingers tightened in her short hair, lifted her face to cover it with kisses. Lips finally meeting with a sigh of relief. "Good to see you again, my love."

"Aye, very good." She didn't realize her fingers were already plucking at the buckles to his armor, but the sound of another horse approaching, and Ria's cheerful greeting pulled her attention to the surrounding world again.

"You know he's done nothing but pine and ramble on about you for the last two weeks, right? What did you do to him?" the cute brunette wanted to know.

"Do you really want to know that, shield-sister?" Laure retorted with an arched eyebrow and broad, suggestive grin. Vilkas smirked over his mate's shoulder, furthering Ria's sudden wish to retract the question.

"Ah, no. Come to think of it, I don't want to know. Gross." She turned away with a little grin of her own. She trotted her horse slowly up the hill, while Vilkas maneuvered Laure around so she sat astride his gelding in front of him. She leaned back against him, nuzzling whatever part of him she could reach, while Roast followed behind, ears pricked toward home and a trough of sweet hay.

* * *

The four remaining members of the Inner Circle of the Companions spread out, eying the cave mouth. Four hearts pounded out a rapid, steady beat. Bright early-morning sun shone through the scattered rain clouds that had drenched the plain the night before. It failed to penetrate far into the crack opening into Broken Fang cave. Swords drawn and ready, they slipped quietly forward, the light of Dawnbreaker shattering the darkness.

An hour later they emerged again, bloodied, panting and tired, yet all alive. The first three had been laughably easy to slay, having only been weak thralls to the vampires. The vampires themselves however had proven tougher. Yet tough was a relative term when speaking of four werewolves, armed and alert, on the hunt.

Laure sifted through a pile of loot taken from the cave. A long ebony sword with intricate scrolling inlaid in bright metal caught her eye. It's gleaming dark length had an attractive curve that appealed to her sense of beauty. The only thing preventing her from claiming it was the fact that it was a greatsword, more suited to Vilkas' or Farkas' fighting style.

Farkas, however, was content with his Skyforge steel, while Vilkas was still enjoying his glittering glass two-hander. Aela had no interest in a blade so large and heavy, which left it to Laurelin to claim. She hefted it in her palms, felt it's solid weight, slid one hand down length, and tested its balance. Perfect in spite of the weight.

"No excuses with this one, love. I expect to see you out training every day," remarked her mate.

"Every day I'm not off fighting dragons, you mean?" she teased while sheathing the dark sword. She was starting to amass quite a collection of swords by now."Well, we should get back to the horses if we want to get home by din-"

A huge, dark shadow passed overhead, dipping into the bright nooks and flitting by in an instant. All four jumped to their feet, bows drawn, heads tipped to the sky. A great roar shook the air, silencing the bird and insect song.

"Shit, is that thing big!" breathed Farkas, his usual unflappable calm ripped away by the sudden appearance of a dragon.

"Aye, it's big, but it has it's weak points. Eyes, wings, mouth, inner joints. We've discussed this enough; mind the tail, keep moving, don't bunch up." The enormous beast circled over again, ignoring the arrows that were being shot its way. Its fanged maw opened and fire roiled out, washing over the damp grass and incinerating it in a blink. Companions dove out of the way, cursing from the scant cover of the rocks. As soon as it flapped away, they emerged again, peppering it with barbed shafts.

This one didn't want to land, Laure decided. It hovered, circled, dove and then climbed back into the sky on broad wings. She and Aela focused on shooting as many holes into the leathery wings as they could. Their efforts paid off more quickly than anticipated when a great rip appeared in one wing, and the dragon spiraled to the ground, tumbling awkwardly. Farkas and Vilkas both rushed in before the dust had settled, swords flashing. Laure and Aela dropped their bows near their packs and drew swords, edging into the melee.

Farkas and Vilkas were shouting back and forth to each other, coordinating attacks, pulling back, rushing in. The dragon, for his part, was lashing about with his tail, snapping furiously at the twins, still breathing torrents of fire periodically.

The Companions rushed in and out of range, carving with blades, cursing the toughness of its hide, shouting encouragement back and forth. Laure answered the dragon's Shouts of fire with her own when she could and pummeled it with the fury of all three words of her Unrelenting Force.

The dragon lurched forward on its wingtips, snapping at Aela, who had been buffeted by the tail seconds before and was struggling to her feet. Blood streamed across her lacerated cheek and shoulder, smearing her green warpaint. Farkas spun between her and the dragon, sword high, and chopped down, smashing into its nose with enough force to drive its chin into the dirt. Aela regained her balance and lashed out with her own dripping blade, smiling grim thanks to her shield-brother.

Slashing, chopping, spinning, and ducking continuously, the four warriors battled the beast. Skilled as they all were, it came as no surprise to them when the it fell to the ground dead and began burning. Aela and Farkas had heard the stories, but this was the first time they had been present to see Laure absorbing the soul.

Farkas' eyes were round, breath coming in heaving pants while the light streamed around him. Aela paced a few moments, watching it all pour into Laure without a word. When the last glimmer of the soul had disappeared, they all began taking stock of injuries. Damages were not as bad as they could have been, although every one was exhausted and bloodied, slightly burned to boot. They sifted through the remains and came up with some gold and gems.

Farkas turned over a few small bones that had dropped free, tried bending a large scale that had flaked away, and gave a small grunt of approval at its toughness. "We could probably make some amazing armor out of some of this stuff; those scales are hard!" he observed a moment later. "We would need more than what's here, though."

Laure nodded. She hadn't really thought about making something out of the remains; she had always been too preoccupied to give it much consideration. She continued her task of carefully cleaning the gore from Aela's face wound, while she thought of the possibilities. "I want to use a touch of healing on you, sister; otherwise that wound may fester." Aela scowled but let the elf use her healing magics to knit the wound closed. She had to admit it was quick and didn't hurt anymore, but the weird itching of magic lingered.

Laure turned her attention to the twins, but they had sustained relatively minor injuries that they were content to drink potions for.

"Well, shall we try this again? Our horses probably took off during the dragon fight, so we should get walking." Vilkas grabbed his pack and shouldered it, looking around the battlefield once more. Soon all four of them were swiftly crossing the tundra, packs heavy with loot, recounting the excitement of the battle just won. Now if they could just get home before supper, they would be able to clean up and lift a mug or ten while telling the tale of their adventure to the whelps. Luck was with them one more time and they discovered the horses right where they had left them.

* * *

Vilkas watched Laurelin from nearby. She was laughing and drinking with the rest of them, but he could tell her thoughts were elsewhere. She glanced his way and flicked her eyes to the door. He shrugged and nodded, tipping his mug back to drain it in a long gulp.

She stood up and began saying her goodbyes, claiming exhaustion after the busy day. They ribbed her affectionately about being an old woman needing her rest, which she easily agreed was true. Farkas raised his mug in farewell, and turned back to the whelps, who wanted to hear the story again. She and Vilkas met at the front doors, pushing through and into the night.

They paused under the fragrant blooms of the Gildergreen tree, Laure feeling the warmth and vitality flowing through it now, tingling under her fingertips.

"It's recovering beautifully, love. You did a wonderful job bringing it back to life. I have many fond memories of things that happened under its branches, and it was sad to see it decline. You gave Whiterun a little happiness and pride back by restoring it. Thank you." He lifted her chin and softly kissed her nose, then drifted to her lips, pulling her lean body in to fit her to him. Long moments he stood embracing her, fists coiled into her hair, then sliding down her back, feeling her spine, then back up again to trace her jaw.

They drifted a few moments on a cloud of blossom scented kisses, until a passing guard remarked, "No lollygaggin'," and moved on with a smirk. Vilkas led her around the tree and they meandered their way toward Breezehome arm in arm. He opened the door for her and they kicked off boots and dropped packs in a pile on the floor. They heard Lydia humming quietly to herself up in her room, but she was learning that unless her Thane called her, the mer usually just wanted to quietly eat or read, sometimes both, neither of which she needed help with. The house was too small to constantly be hovering in each other's company.

Pouring drinks for the two of them, Vilkas sat next to Laure near the fire and stretched his long legs toward it, handing her a mug as he did. She smiled and accepted her drink, staring thoughtfully into the fire. She sipped and popped to her feet, wandered the house a few moments, put a few things away, and then returned to the fire. Upstairs, Lydia could be heard turning in for the night.

Finally Laurelin sank down next to Vilkas and drew a deep breath, exhaling through puffed cheeks. She sipped her mead again, gazing into the fire once more.

"Tell me what's on your mind, love," he encouraged. She grinned weakly at him and tossed back the rest of her drink, setting the cup down on the floor.

"Not really sure how to say this, and you already know what I'm going to say-at least I think you do-but here goes." She winced slightly as she continued, biting her lip. "I wish I was more drunk. Not what I meant to say. I'm a thief. Have been for years. I have to tell you; it's been too long already..." she rambled on until Vilkas hushed her.

"I thought you were going to tell me something I didn't already know. You are correct, I did already know, or rather, have suspicions. From the start, actually."

"Why let me into the Companions, then?" she asked quietly.

"The old man liked what he saw in you, that's why. Because in spite of your old hobby, nothing ever went missing in the mead hall. Because you proved yourself to be a worthy Companion. Why did you wait so long to tell me? Why tell me now?" His brow furrowed over his silver eyes, bright amidst the black paint he wore today.

"Because I didn't want this ugly secret between us any longer. Before we were involved, it wasn't necessary for you to know, and it is information that might put you in danger. Now we have this bond, and I can't hide this thing about myself from the man I love. The mammoth in the corner was getting out of hand, and you deserve to know the truth. There is more, though. It wasn't just a hobby. I am a very good thief, I worked my ass to get where I am now-"

"And that is?"

"I'm the head of the Thieves Guild." He snorted softly, clearly not believing her latest claim, until he saw her still meeting his gaze, a hint of pride lifting her chin.

"How long?"

"Several years now. The old leader was a bastard and caused too many problems. A few associates and I managed to get rid of him, later he betrayed us all. Then they chose me to take over. Gods only know why, but they did. Since then we've grown wealthy and powerful again. Are you mad at me?"

"Of course I'm mad! You didn't lie to me directly, but Laurelin, it's been months. I'm upset, aye; why wait so long?"

Laure ran her palm up the back of her neck, ruffling her short hair. "How should I have brought it up? 'By the way, lover, I'm the best damn thieving spy you've met, but don't worry. I don't steal from those who have less than I do, so your safe'? Or how about, 'We only steal from rich arseholes who deserve to be robbed.' You like that one?"

He held up his hand, "Enough. You had your reasons, and I'm sure they seemed like a good idea at the time. I can't pretend to understand why, nor that I approve. You are a capable hunter and provider. Why would you need to pick pockets?"

"I didn't do it because I 'needed' to. I did it because of the challenge, the thrill, the game. Actually, I'm a mediocre pickpocket at best. Locks and espionage are my forte. There's nothing like teasing a lock open and making copies of things that were never meant to see the light of day. Or planting information..." She trailed off, noting the dark look he leveled her way.

"We should continue this conversation tomorrow. For now I have plenty to think about. I think...I'm going for a walk." His voice was calm, his response more placid than she would have thought. His _tone_ and words were calm, but his scent revealed his anger, tightly controlled.

"Do you wish to be alone?"

"No, but I think some time and space will help me more than company right now. Get some rest, love. I'll be back shortly." He draped a cloak over his shoulders and slipped out the door. Laure sat and stared at the door long after it closed.

* * *

Vilkas turned west and left Whiterun through the front gate. His heavy steps carried him toward the river, its mellow, rushing song calling him closer. He walked slowly, lost in thought as he considered everything she told him this evening, everything she hadn't yet voiced. He had wondered many times about her involvement with the thieves in Riften. What other secrets did she keep?

Part of him was furious that she had hidden all the facts for so long, that she didn't seem remorseful at all, not the tiniest bit ashamed of her recent profession. Why would the gods choose a thief to embody the salvation of the world?

A large shadow paced quietly next to him, but its appearance didn't surprise him. He'd expected this one. They continued down to the bridge together, neither one speaking out loud. They stopped in the middle of the bridge, leaning over the low stone wall, one lost in thought, one wanting to help.

"You wanna talk about it?" Farkas finally asked.

"Nope." Farkas shrugged and leaned against the wall, arms folded across his massive chest. Vilkas wandered in circles, gazing at the stars, fingers laced behind his head. His circles brought him to the end of the bridge, down to the bank where he and the woman he loved had stared at the stars, before he admitted his feelings to himself even. He had been aware of her somewhat shady past even then. It hadn't stopped him from caring for her. But he had thought she was only a former thief. He had never anticipated she was the leader of the verminous Guild.

But how could _his_ Laurelin, who was one of the sunniest, most honest and caring people he had known, be a rotten thief? It didn't make sense. Why would she stoop so low?

"Do you think it really matters, Farkas?"

"What, her being a thief? Naw, we know who she is in her heart, better than most. What more do you need to know?"

"Farkas, it goes deeper than her just taking the occasional trinket. It doesn't bother you that she is the leader of the Guild of thieves we are supposed to hunt down and bring to justice? Years we've spent trying to get our blades to the throat of the Guild, and the fucking Master her self prances in and we accept her into our ranks with open arms and make her the bloody Harbinger!" Vilkas calmed himself with an effort.

"What's the problem? Nothing comes up missing; she's not stealing anything now, least not that I've seen. I don't think her heart is in thieving anymore. Plus, she told me not long ago that they deal in information more than um, goods. Says it brings in more gold and less blood is spilled over paper than gold; but then she laughed a little and rolled her eyes, so I don't know what she really meant."

"She was being sarcastic, brother. Information is almost always more valuable than gold, and it can be harder to detect its theft. Make no mistake, blood is spilled every second out of desire for revealed secrets."

"So what now? Does this really change anything?"

"It changes nothing, brother. I'm trying to work some things out in my head is all, and it doesn't help that all I can think about is hurrying back to her! Part of me feels deceived, but I know she didn't lie... she just-she never revealed the whole truth, which hurts almost as much."

"Want to hit something? It's been a while since we've had a good match. I promise not to hit you as hard as last time since you're being all mopey." The big man raised his huge fists, making a few playful jabs at his brother. Vilkas deftly pushed the blows to the side and returned one of his own. Farkas smiled and danced to the side. "That's more like it."

They sparred for a while, Vilkas letting his frustrations out, Farkas absorbing his brother's ire in his usual level-headed manner. Vilkas ducked a swing from his brother, grunting out as he did, "Why didn't she just tell me sooner? I thought she trusts me."

"Some things you don't just blurt out, brother. Even I know that. We didn't exactly come right out and tell her about the blood, did we? I'm sure if you had asked outright, she would have been more-oof, good one there!-she would have told you sooner. If she didn't trust you, she never would have said anything at all."

Vilkas dropped his curled fists, a pained expression on his face."You are correct, we hid what we are from her, but for us it's a matter of survival. Silver Hand, Vigilants of Stendarr, assassins, they would all love to take us out. We have to keep that secret."

"So what makes us different from her? She told us precisely what we needed to know at the time. The rest she kept to herself same as us. You think she doesn't have enemies and people who would love to bury her? Plus it isn't just herself she's protecting, all of her old friends rely on her keeping quiet as well." The big man lowered his fists and rested them on his hips as he stared down at his older brother.

"Vilkas, are you more upset that she's a thief or that she waited so long to tell us?"

"She didn't wait as long to tell you, did she? It's both, I want her to be honest with me, feel like she can tell me anything-"

"You've only been together a few months now. She doesn't know everything about you, and you are still getting to know her. She has what, two hundred or more years of experience. Learning everything about her isn't going to happen overnight. And let's face it, you have a temper. I wouldn't want to tell you I was a thief."

"I guess it would be easier to reconcile if the Guild was part of her past, but I don't think she will ever turn from it completely. What am I supposed to do with that, Farkas?"

"Talk with her. Don't yell. Other than that, I dunno. She loves you, I know that much, and you love her. You two need to work it out. How much does it matter what she did or who she is to other people? You two have a link; don't sever it for something so small."

"I have no intentions of severing our bond. I couldn't even if I wanted to. If only it was such a small thing as you make out," groused Vilkas, scowling at his boots

"So you gonna talk to her, or should I finish mashing you to a pulp?"

"Enough mashing, I'll go back home and talk with her. You're an arsehole you know."

"What did I do?"

"Nothing, you just defended her the whole time when I was looking for a little brotherly support." Vilkas let a faint smile soften his face.

Farkas slung a heavy arm over his twin's shoulder, "I just don't want you to scare her off. I love her too." They turned and headed back into the city, quiet again.

* * *

Laurelin stood up when she heard his quiet steps approaching. He came in a moment later, nodding over his shoulder to Farkas, who rumbled a quiet, "Good night."

He met her eyes and closed the door behind him. Smiling a bit nervously, Laure announced to her mate, "I'm ready to tell you all of the story, if you'll hear it."

Vilkas smiled warmly and opened his arms, which she gladly stepped into. "Of course. I'll pour."


	4. Chapter 4

**Of Wolf And Man -Part Four**

The world swam painfully into focus. My mouth was dry and felt hairy. It was dim, wherever I was, and a heavy weight had my left arm pinned. I turned my head to see what the deal was and felt long strands of something trail over my face. As I discovered, my mouth _was_ hairy. Or rather, it was full of dark wavy hair that smelled pleasantly of grass and lavender and sweat. The weight on my arm, and sprawled over my lower half was. . . was. Naked for starters. _What is her name_? I thought frantically. Ria! Finally piecing together the night, I recalled what happened.

I groaned silently. Never challenge a Nord to a drinking contest. _Just don't_, I decided a moment later. Lying as still as I could, I took stock. My shirt was at the foot of the bed, but I was still wearing my trousers. _This is a good sign_, I thought. I vaguely recalled stumbling back to Jorrvaskr, being supported by two significantly less inebriated brothers. I remember giving Farkas a display of drunken destruction magic down by the river banks, lighting up the night sky with fireballs and crackling lightning. Farkas and even Vilkas agreed my magic was impressive, then guided my stumbling steps up through town.

Once in Jorrvaskr, I was plied with more drinks, though I hardly needed more. At some point, I found the pert little Imperial, Ria, on my lap. While she had made it abundantly clear she was willing to go for a tumble, I held back.

Now here she was, naked and sprawled over me. She stirred and pressed harder against me, soft breasts pushing into my chest. Damn. Now what? Her fingers played over my bare skin raising gooseflesh, awakening other parts of me as well.

"You're still here," she observed in a shy tone.

"I-" I tried to find the right words, let her know how sorry I was that I couldn't do what she wants to do, but my tongue was stuck to the roof of my fetid mouth.

"It's okay, I understand. You're a gentleman. Thank you for tucking me in and staying with me, even if we couldn't do more."

I didn't know what to say. She was sweet, listened avidly to stories, cute in her sturdy Imperial way, young, and most of all, willing. "You were quite intoxicated if I recall," I finally managed, stroking her soft hair. "I could never live with myself if I took advantage while your judgment was impaired. I hope you understand."

"I'm not impaired now," she quipped brightly. "Besides, you were far more drunk than I was. Been drinking with the Companions for a year now, and I've learned a thing or two. No one drinks a Companion under the table."

I couldn't help it; my chuckle filled the quiet space between the snores of the others bunked nearby. "I still think it might not be a good idea, sweetheart. Care to join me for breaking fast, though? I think I need something solid in my gut, and soon."

"Sure, I'd love to!" She scrambled over me, naked and without a scrap of shame, sorting through the mismatched items on the floor. I laid back a moment and enjoyed her firm, very ripe curves. That work in the training yard had left her beautifully fit.

"Missed your chance, pervert. Here are your boots," she laughed when she noticed me watching her dress. Smiling wryly, I tugged on my boots. _She will make some man very happy someday_, I decided as she skipped ahead with youthful enthusiasm.

* * *

Later that day, I met Kodlak for the first time. I was almost instantly aware of why so many spoke of him with such respect. With stately but clearly painful steps, he toured the main hall, greeting each of the Companions, asking after health, progress in training. He calmly offered advice if it seemed needed and gave sincere encouragement to all. Finally he made his way over to where I sat, picking over the remains of breakfast.

"Well, you must be Philip. Sullevan has spoken most highly of you. Welcome to Jorrvaskr, although I'm sure you've already been adequately embraced into the fold." He winked at me as he settled carefully into a seat. His rough, old voice had a soothing quality to it, full of warmth and amusement.

I laughed, unable to help myself. "Aye, quite so. It is an honor to meet you, Harbinger." We were able to strike up an easy conversation that stretched on into the morning. At some point toward mid-morning, Vilkas came stalking upstairs, greatsword attached to his back, wearing the trademark wolf armor of the Companions and a slight frown on his face. His glance around the room and a slight flaring of his nostrils betrayed his disappointment. In talking with the man the night before, I had received the impression he didn't truly know why he had become involved with my brother.

I had nothing to say beyond, "What Sulle wants, he'll eventually get. He wanted you." Vilkas had sworn under his breath and downed a pint of mead in record time. Still, the tall Nord had even later confessed that it was pleasant to be with someone who could fight him to the ground, have his back, and challenge him.

"Not sure I need to hear about him having your back. Or anything," I had joked. Vilkas scowled fiercely a moment, and I thought for an instant I was about to get into a brawl with my brother's boyfriend. The tension mounted as the other man still didn't say anything.

Then Vilkas laughed softly, the first time I had heard such a thing from the usually stoic man. "Aye, I imagine you wouldn't."

Today, Vilkas seemed back to his customary surly self. Dropping into a chair near the Harbinger, he pulled a plate in front of him and with almost fussy precision cored an apple, eating that while he loaded his plate with cheese, seared fish, and a few boiled eggs.

"Well Vilkas, you and the rest have shown our guest how the Companions celebrate. Care to show him how we clean out a nest of bandits? Can't have him languishing about in boredom." The old man handed Vilkas a slip of paper. The younger Nord read quickly, his mouth stilling as he read. In a flash it was folded and out of sight, and Vilkas resumed eating.

"Shouldn't be a problem, long as our friend here wants to come along." Silver bright eyes rested on me dubiously a moment then Kodlak, who turned to me with a small smile.

"I have little else to do until Sullevan returns. Where are we heading?"

"Valtheim Towers," Vilkas replied. "Seems the rabble have moved back in again, and the jarl has asked if any of us want to take care of it. I'll bring Farkas too. If we leave soon, we could even be back before moonrise."

"I'll need to stop at Breezehome and gather my things. Shall I meet you at the gate in a half hour?" I asked, rising.

"Fine, we'll be waiting."

* * *

The twins dashed up the stairs of the first tower, battle cries shouted at top volume, bright steel shining in the dim, torchlit gloom. I followed a short distance behind while they cleared the tower in a few heartbeats. The bandits weren't putting up much of a fight so far, but now in the doorway looking across the river, I saw a good eight or nine of them right away. Casting a few extra enchantments on myself to augment my armor, I hurled a fireball at several who were boiling out of the tower on the opposite side of the White River, both towers connected by a narrow, stone bridge with no rails or sides to speak of.

The ball of flames streaked across the river, blasting several off the bridge, and they tumbled bonelessly to the frigid waters far below, only to be swept over a tall waterfall moments later. I ducked back into my shelter and heard the clatter of arrows striking the stones all around my former position. I heard the twins up above, battling a few men, but it sounded as though they had things well in hand.

A swift glance showed me the charred remains of the two who didn't fall, still smoldering. On the far bank, two archers fired as soon as I peeked out; but once they did, I returned with a volley of my own, and the archers dove for cover. Content to pin them down until the two brothers were done up above, I moved up the short ramp to the upper door leading into the tower, hurling destruction over the river as I went.

Farkas and Vilkas finished the last bandit on this side of the river and hurried back downstairs to join me at the door. Farkas moved to stick his head out, but Vilkas and I both tugged him back, just as another pair of arrows clattered off the walls and around our feet.

"Now!" I rolled out the door, fire crackling in my hands, then hurled it over the river, using the confusion as cover to race across the bridge, with the twins hot on my heels. Once over the narrow span, the brothers once more charged in, while I sought out the archers. Small fires flickered here and there, and the muffled sound of coughing and moaning reached me. Since no more shafts were flying my way, I leaned around the door frame, trying to ignore the shouts and screaming of metal and men up above me.

There, a few yards away in the brush was a bowman, trying to creep away. A well placed fireball in front of him had him scrambling to his feet and tugging his sword free as he charged me in desperation. His sword met mine, and we exchanged a flurry of furious blows. The man I faced was an adequate swordsman but not good enough, and he soon fell to my blade, choking on his own blood.

The twins clattered out of the tower a moment later, glancing around for more enemies. "I think there might still be one more archer over there, past that table and chair; shall we flush him out?"

The twins nodded together and advanced steadily, ready for ambush. We crept toward the spot, flanking to the left and right, expecting to hear the twanging hum of a bowstring or the hiss of a barbed shaft cutting the air. But nothing happened. Vilkas was the first to find the charred remains of the last archer and whistled a sharp note.

"I think this was the last of them," he observed, scanning the wooded hillside behind us.

"Towers clear?" I asked.

Farkas nodded and sheathed his sword before rifling through the blackened clothing of the corpse before us.

"How many would you say you took out with your fire?" Vilkas asked, looking over the bank to the river below. He was stroking his stubble shadowed jaw, apparently tallying the number of bandits we took out.

"Five, maybe six. Got a few nicks from one of the archers, but nothing serious. No injuries for you guys?"

"Nope, I think we're fine. Let's get moving; we can be back home before supper if we move now."

"Sounds great, I'm starving!"

We quickly stripped the bandits of anything valuable, rolled the bodies into the woods for the wolves, and left before the sun started to set. At a quick jog, we set back to town, feeling loose and ready to take on anything.

We made it back to Whiterun a little after dark. We would have been there a few moments earlier, but an unwise necromancer decided we were too close to the Ritual Stone and attacked us. I learned in the next minute that Farkas and Vilkas actually hate mages, especially those that attack them with magic. The necromancer was carved into little pieces before I could comprehend what was happening.

A bit shaken, I sheathed my sword, carefully making no sudden moves, but the brothers seemed unworried and calm again. "That one got what was coming to him," muttered Farkas as he walked on by.

"I won't argue with you," I called out. "Makes me glad I didn't accidentally hit you with any."

"It's better you don't," Vilkas said as he trotted on by, a scant smile on his face. "It might be hard to explain to your brother why you were carved into mincemeat."

_I'll be damned if they didn't do that just to show me what they do to magic users who get on their wrong side_, I thought.

Jorrvaskr was full of chatter and the clink and clatter of meals being served and eaten. We were greeted with raised mugs and shouts. This part felt more comfortable, and if this was how returning Companions were usually greeted, I could see the appeal to Sullevan. Vilkas headed downstairs to let Kodlak know we'd returned and were successful while Farkas grabbed a seat and gestured for me to join. We feasted and drank, and for the most part, the Companions seemed to accept me as a guest and friend. Later, Vilkas dropped a small purse in front of me.  
"Your share of the bounty for the Towers job. Nice work back there."

"Thank you Vilkas. I might say the same. You and your brother mow through those bandits like a scythe through ripe wheat," I complimented, feeling grateful that my brother's lover took the time to compliment me and be friendly.

"It's what we've trained all our lives to do. Kodlak asked me to extend the offer of a bed here in Jorrvaskr if you wish to stay here while your brother is away. But we'll all understand if you wish to stay at Breezehome. There isn't much privacy here, nor many quiet places where one might study. Now if you'll excuse me, I will retire for the evening. Goodnight."

"Goodnight." Vilkas disappeared downstairs, and I sat near the fire, sipping mead. A short time later, a striking, red-haired Nord woman sauntered into the hall, a brace of rabbits and water-fowl thrown over her slender shoulder. She was greeted by raised mugs and shouts of recognition as well. Another Companion had returned home. She smiled and dropped her prizes on a side table, making herself a plate of food and grabbing a mug.

She had a hunter's grace, each movement economical and fluid. She dropped into a chair next to me and looked me up and down. "You look like your brother; do you act like him as well?"

I blinked, this woman didn't beat around the bush. "I'm sure we share some traits beyond looks, but no, I don't think we act alike. Not unless he's become less impetuous recently."

She chuckled quietly. "Good, I like your brother, but he's still young and reckless sometimes. You give me hope he'll mature into a fine Companion." Her strong fingers tore apart a whole chicken, "I'm Aela, the Huntress. A pleasure to meet you."

While she ate, she asked me dozens of questions. We sat and talked until weariness made me yawn, at which point I excused myself and retreated to one of the narrow cots in the dorm and found sleep nearly at once.

* * *

_Menacing growls puncture the bubble of quiet blackness around my mind. The pain rolls back in, sharp and piercing as before. A quiet giggle isn't what I expect to hear in response to the growls. I peer through crusted eyes toward the source of the noise and discover Krev, standing near the bars with one of the silver tipped spears resting over his shoulder. My cellmate is backed into the opposite corner, somehow uttering those sounds that stirred me awake._

_The man's eyes are fixed on the boy with the spear, fear, anger, and something else stirring in the depths. The boy hefts the spear in his hand, and fresh growls burst forth. Krev chortles maliciously, seeming to enjoy the power he has to threaten great pain._

_Finally his desire to inflict the other man with pain overwhelms his young judgment, and Krev slides the spear between the bars._

_"Hey! No, boy, don't-" I try to shout, but my voice is too raw, throat too dry. It's too late anyway. Krev lines up his spear point and jabs it toward the man, who tries to leap out of the way. The silver tip skates over his back, and with a whimper he collapses._

_He rolls to lie flat against the back wall, panting hoarsely. His eyes open after an instant, hard and furious. His chest spasms twice, then in a heartbeat is swelling to huge proportions and splitting his clothes apart._

_Horrified, I watch, frozen in my corner as his legs grow longer and thicker, and his nails lengthen into sharp talons. I glance to his face and find a maw of glinting teeth emerging, lips twisted into a feral grimace._

_The transformation has taken mere seconds, yet everything seems to slow down. The werewolf rolls to his feet and bats away the spear held by the astonished child. I blink and the wolf has the kicking boy through the bars, squeezing his neck._

_Like the idiot I am, I lurch to my feet and try to pry the wolf's grasp off the boy. In fury, the werewolf drops Krev, who scrambles away, choking and crying. Howling, the wolf rounds on me and bites me savagely. Loud shouts as the guards realize what is going on seem to come from a far distance as I feel fire coursing up my arm and shoulder._

_Convinced I am about to die, I barely notice a veritable forest of spears sprouting between the bars of the cell. One grazes my ribs; another scores a line across my left shoulder. The werewolf howls and rages but drops me and retreats to the back of the cell, filling it with his snarling form._

_I collapse to the cold stone floor, my shoulder awash with blood. Already weakened, hungry, beaten, I feel blackness rising up to overtake me once again. I dimly hear voices speaking nearby._

_"Leave them, those two can sort it out-if the kid lives."_

_"The Breton saved your boy, ma'am. Krev told me so."_

_"Fine, get him out, and see if you can get him to choke down a potion in time. Otherwise, he's maggot food."_

_I am dragged from the cell, but I barely notice, the red-tinged blackness has almost swallowed me now._

_"Drink up, laddie, you crazy fuck. Drink, or I'll have to slit your throat." I don't hear the last very clearly; his voice retreats further and further away with each heartbeat. Something wet and bitter spills over my lips, but I just don't care anymore._


	5. Chapter 5

**Of Wolf and Man-Part Five**

I rolled off the cot, groggy but awake. Finding my way upstairs a short time later, I broke my fast quietly and left the warm hall to take a long walk around the city. Those dreams were always difficult to shake and lingered through the day. Often I needed hours of hard training with my sword, or study and meditation, before the cottony threads of the dreams finally disappeared.

I sat under the faded splendor of the Gildergreen tree for a time, listening to the fanatical priest of Talos, preaching loudly about his god. The strident clang of hammer on steel punctuated the sermon periodically. Whiterun was home to the Skyforge, an ancient forge purported to give birth to the finest steel in Skyrim. Eorland Grey-Mane was the master smith who worked the forge, as did his forebears, crafting armor and weapons for the Companions and for any who have the courage to climb the steps and huddle under the giant stone eagle that loomed over the small plateau it rested on. An important place in the history of Skyrim, the Skyforge is where Ysgramor himself finally brought his band of early Companions and rebuilt his ship—hauled miles inland by hand—into the mead hall, Jorrvaskr.

A little later I wandered back to Jorrvaskr. I trained with blade and shield for a while, alone at first, then with Athis, a Dunmer whom I couldn't decide whether I liked or not. He was personable but had no problem criticizing a person for anything from political views to choice of weapon. Still, he was an able warrior and a decent match for a simple spar. I knew that if we ever truly fought, Athis would go down in a heartbeat. His armor was as scant as mine and he scorned magic much like the other Companions. While able to offer me a challenge in the training yard, on the battle field he would succumb to the devastation of my ice and lightning magics in seconds.

Athis and I paused a little after midday to eat. Vilkas and I fell into conversation, in which he was pleased to recount interesting portions of Skyrim history, in particular that of the Companions and their illustrious founder, Ysgramor. While not a novice to the general history of Skyrim myself, the depth and scope of his understanding and knowledge surprised me.

"I'm not sure I would have placed you as a warrior-scholar, Vilkas," I remarked while he paused during a story to wet his throat.

"According to Skjor, if my brother has the strength of Ysgramor, I have his smarts. I don't really think I'm any smarter than my brother, just focused differently. Which might make me smarter, just because I have read so many damn books."

Not knowing either of them well enough to judge or even feel comfortable responding, I found myself making a non-committal grunt while studying the bottom of my empty mug.

"What about you? How did you come to be a spell-sword?" he asked a moment later as he refilled my mug.

"That is a long, dull tale."

"Your brother has mentioned a few things from time to time yet stays strangely quiet on the topic of your mother and her death. He's only told me that our mutual, ah . . . antagonist was involved."

"Sullevan staying quiet is an odd thing, but all our lives, he's only had the word of my Pa and I that—well what happened, did. It must have been unbelievably hard for the younger ones. The middle three had gone with our Pa for the day, and Ma was alive and well when they left. When they got back, she was dead. Murdered. They never saw; I thank the gods they never did."

"I take it you saw what happened?"

"No, but I—I found her after." I swallowed back the bitter rage welling up inside me. "At least I knew her, knew her for the person she was. Not a monster. She was kind, smart, dedicated to her family. She loved us all, in spite of us being the nuisances we were. I miss her cooking and helping her in the garden," I admitted.

After a respectful moment, Vilkas replied, "I mourn your loss, yet still I envy you a little. Having the gift of even a single memory of your mother or father is something Farkas and I just don't have. The Companions, Kodlak and the others all helped raise us, and we wanted for nothing. Nothing but our real parents. For all you have suffered, Philip, I consider you a fortunate man, for you have wealth in such memories."

I lifted my mug in acknowledgment of this, and we drank after a silent toast to our lost parents. The afternoon passed quickly while I took a few hours to study, taking solace from the familiar routine. Evening fell, and we all gathered round to share a boisterous supper. Everyone laughed and shouted to each other across the long span of the dining table.

We were all expecting my brother to return at any time, so when the back door opened, we all raised our mugs to welcome him back. Instead of my brother, however, a large group of armed men and women rushed in, weapons in hand and murder glinting in their determined eyes. The stench was unmistakable—Silver Hand.

Chaos erupted as the Companions lurched to their feet. One moment we were feasting peacefully and the next, reaching for weapons. I saw Farkas hurl his tankard across the room, droplets of mead flying off the rim, and couldn't help but gape as the vessel rocked a mans head back and snapped his neck. Roars of fury echoed about the room as the warriors swarmed to defend their home, blades drawn and readied in a blink.

I found myself fighting back a red rage as I drew my sword. Years of hunting and planning gone by, and here they walked right into my reach. Finally. Here inside, I couldn't use most of my magic, but I instinctively cast a few wards and augmentations to my armor as I leaped forward.

Everything was chaos around me, and it seemed that I saw the flash of silver blades everywhere. Blade for blade, the Companions were better than the Silver Hand, but there were too many foes to easily count.

I met an attack, deflected the cut past my body, and punched the swordsman in the face, letting a powerful charge of lightning jolt him off his feet. Vilkas and Farkas were back to back, surrounded on all sides but holding their ground. I ran a man through as he stumbled back into me, and tugged my sword free as quickly as possible. In moments, the pitch of the battle turned as Kodlak himself came charging up the stairs, eyes blazing with fury. I saw the Companions become a coordinated fighting unit as the old man took charge, roaring out terse orders to the Circle members, who in turn directed the others. Months and years of training and fighting together became evident just then.

The Silver Hand fell heavily to the floor, often vomiting their own blood, and a group of them broke and fled out the front doors, followed by Aela and Torvar. I was still battling one, a small woman who danced around me, using her dexterity and size to her advantage. To my horror, I saw Athis and Ria go down, unconscious and bleeding, with Njada standing over them, swearing loudly as she fought toe to toe with a pair of enemies. Kodlak and the twins had linked up and presented a formidable front to the last knot of Silver Hand. Bodies were everywhere, and I picked my way through them quickly, still hungry for the blood of the cowards who had killed my mother.

The smell of their blood was a heavy, heady, and I savored it while I flanked the pair of men pressing Farkas. There were still six of them and four of us, but the four of us were pissed and more than up for the challenge. The rest fell like leaves after a few moments of pitched fighting.

The last one slid off of Vilkas' sword with a wet, sucking sound, being pushed free by the Nord's booted foot. Kodlak wiped his brow and turned to survey the mess. His eyes immediately found his wounded shield-siblings, and he rushed over the sticky, slick floorboards, calling out, "Someone fetch Danica and bring some healing potions. Is everyone else all right?"

I sheathed my sword and looked around for my pack, as there were a number of potions, herbs, and poultices as well as clean bandages. I set to work on Ria first as she was more gravely injured, forcing a powerful healing potion down her throat. I repeated this with Athis, and while the potions worked internally, I bathed the most serious of Ria's wounds.

Kodlak straightened up and stepped over a body, heading for the front doors. I saw in my peripheral vision when suddenly the body twitched, then jerked up, a long silver knife clutched in a gory fist. The knife sliced across the back of Kodlak's knee, dropping him to the floor. A second strike, and Kodlak had his life blood pouring out of a wound to his groin. Still, the amazing man managed to snatch the knife and drive it into the throat of his slayer before collapsing.

I saw him fall and bolted, trying to reach him with a potion, healing magic, something—to no avail. Vilkas and I reached him at the same time, but the other man shoved me away and lifted up his Harbinger's head, feeling for a pulse. Gently laying Kodlak back a moment later, Vilkas sat back on his heels, breathing deeply, but I could see the rage gathering there as his hard gaze traveled the room.

Helpless, just the same as when I was a boy. And yet not. Where before, I was a naive child without relevant skills, now I had the tools and knowledge. And more than anything, I wanted to write an end to the years of doubt and torment.

"Damn! Those sons of whores!" Vilkas shouted, lurching to his feet and dashing to the wall near the stairs. "They stole Wuuthrad as well!" Visibly shaking now, Vilkas took deliberate long breaths, trying to calm himself before exploding.

"What is Wuuthrad?" I asked cautiously.

"The ax of Ysgramor himself. The Companions have been collecting pieces of it for years." His big hands curled into fists, and I could hear the leather of his straps creaking ominously. With a visible effort, he calmed himself again, then spun on his heel. He and his twin carefully lifted the fallen Harbinger from the blood and torn bodies of the Silver Hand and laid him out on the cleaner boards near the entrance.

Farkas dropped down at Kodlak's side, unable to speak or lift his gaze, and Vilkas paced furiously before the door, probably thinking about what needed to be done. Njada dropped her sword and rushed to the Harbingers side, tears streaming down her face. Ria and Athis were still injured so I moved to tend them, but before could I get there, the doors flew open and my brother rushed in, panting and red-faced.

I watched in fascination and horror as Vilkas shouted at my brother, and I saw my brother flinch. Wrathful accusations flew, and Sullevan barely tried to defend himself from the onslaught. He just seemed stunned, a growing sadness and horror rising in his eyes.

Vilkas declared, "We are going to retrieve the fragments of Wuuthrad, and we are going to kill any of the Silver Hand we encounter."

Sullevan nodded wearily, dropping a heavy sack. His eyes met mine and he lifted his shoulders, question hovering unspoken between us.

"Let me grab a few things and I'll be ready," I said, and I packed everything I needed in moments. Together, Sullevan, Vilkas, and I charged out of Whiterun, setting a furious pace. This would all end, and soon. The three of us would see to it. Our very blood demanded payment in kind.

* * *

_The pain is maddening. Constant, pulsing, it burns and itches its way through my entire body like a fever. Waves of nausea wrack my stomach, but it has been so long since I've eaten that there is nothing to bring up but green bile, mixed with the rust of blood. At least the agony and nausea mean I must still be alive somehow._

_Someone holds a cup of water to my lips and I nearly drown trying to suck down as much as I can. "Easy laddie, slow down. Keep that bit of water down and we'll see if you can stomach a potion after that." My benefactor is a greasy-haired Nord man, in his mid twenties by my guess._

_"Why heal me?" I ask weakly, sucking the last moisture from my lips, ready for more._

_"Because you did a very noble, brave, and stupid thing a while ago. Why save the boy? I saw what he did, provoking the other one into changing. You could have let the beast rip Krev up."_

_"Because he's still only a child and doesn't understand what he does."_

_The other man snorts mockingly but lifts the cups to my lips again. "That boy understands and has himself a wide, mean streak. Make no mistake, he was hoping to goad that werewolf into attacking you, see?"_

_"So you watched him do that and didn't stop him?" I choke a little on the water in shock._

_"Any man laying hands on that little shit or even looking at him wrong might as well just feed his'self to the bloody wolves. We let him do whatever he wants and we keep our skins. We scoop him outta trouble if we have to, but other than that . . ."_

_I groan. Why in Oblivion did I rescue the brat? I have little energy to think long on it though, and soon another wave of sweats and fever flushes over me. The man nods as he watches me shake and writhe on the table I'm strapped to._

_"Your body is fightin' a losing battle. I hope you can keep down a potion. I kind of like you, even if you are a gullible twit."_

_"What are you talking about?" I ask, unable to focus. If I close my eyes the world starts to tip and buck under me, but when they are open sweat and smoke burn them and I have to see all the blood, the red, red blood, some mine. Gods, it burns!_

_"You were bitten by a werewolf boy. Not everyone who is bitten by a werewolf lives to tell of it. Most just get eaten. Most of those few who live will just have terrible scars and a tale for the grandchildren. Now some others, rarely, carry the blood already, in diluted form. Like yourself. When that werewolf bit you, it awakened your blood-curse. It might have lain dormant, but for that bite. Now, because of that heroic act of yours, if you don't choke down a potion to cure the disease, you'll be turning into a werewolf before too long. Of course, I'll have to slit your throat first, better to end it quick-like. I understand the first transformation hurts like nothing else. It's a mercy, really."_

_The friendly, almost instructional way the man tells me these things then just as casually mentions slitting my throat leaves me even more confused, and knowing without equivocation what is in store for me gives me unexpected chills. I fight back the panic, feeling my heart pounding in my chest as I try to breathe. All I have to do is drink a potion and all will be well._

_Granted, I'll still be a captive, but at least I won't have my throat cut before I turn into a ravenous beast. Through the haze of pain and anger, I hear myself ask weakly, "Will the potion work?"_

_"Maybe," he says lightly. "Or maybe not. You have to keep it down first. Here, open up, you'll probably actually need to down a few just in case. Lucky you, we brew these in quantity. Tastes like week-old horker shit though. Don't ask me how I know what week-old horker crap tastes like."_

_He's right about the flavor, and the thick, oily consistency is not helped by the gritty residue left on my tongue. Bitter herbs and something decidedly moldy and putrid coat my mouth, and I am only able to swallow a tiny bit of the acrid stuff before I start to retch. The rest leaks past my lips and dribbles through the stubble on my chin. In despair, I try to choke more of it down, hoping that once I become accustomed to the taste, I'll be able to finish. Instead I gag, the urge to expel the rancid brew from my already rebelling stomach growing every moment._

_The tiny amount I have swallowed comes back up, and I have to turn my head to avoid choking on my own vomit, feebly spitting the dark drops from my lips. My throat burns and there is still that awful taste in my mouth._

_The Nord who has been tending me shakes his head regretfully. "Well, looks like I need to tell the boss about this. I'll be back soon enough, once she tells me what to do with you. For what it's worth, I'm sorry; you don't seem like a bad sort." He shuffles away, and I am left alone with my delirium and pain, the fever still raging through my veins._

_Nearly as bitter as the memories and despair is the taste of the potion that couldn't save me, clinging to my tongue, a reminder of all the ways I failed._

* * *

Sullevan, Vilkas and I slowly approached the hideout we had tracked the Silver Hand to. A single guard was huddled by the door, stamping his feet and shivering in the snow. Flurries of the white stuff fell past our noses, catching in hair and eyelashes.

"Why is there only one guard?" Sullevan breathed, to himself as much as us.

"No telling, you want to wait or move in?" I asked softly.

"Let's scout around the back side." We slipped closer once we'd skirted the snow-covered building and found there were no further guards. We rushed in a moment later and overcame the guard in seconds, then moved inside, were we slew another guard who was pulling on gloves and cloak. He died before he could shout an alarm; Vilkas and Sullevan's attacks were swift and without mercy.

Onward, downward we went, occasionally battling a handful of Silver Hand. Our fury and skill carried us through these brief encounters without pause, and we took only a few minor injuries along the way. Soon we found ourselves face to face to face with the last group, who surrounded a steel-armored figure at a table.

The fight was brutal, my brother, Vilkas, and myself taking our cuts and bruises with curses and counterattacks of our own. In moments the last of the Silver Hand, their leader, stood tall before us, his dark eyes drinking in the sight of his fighters bathed in their own blood. He smiled malevolently and nodded to Sullevan in a familiar way.

"So nice to see you again, Companion," the man said scornfully.

"Krev the Skinner," my brother said to the man facing him. " I killed you at Gallows Rock; it's rude to not stay dead."

_Krev. I should have guessed._ The simmering anger I had felt for years simmered a little faster; my heart was racing in my chest.

"Should have made sure. I know just enough healing magic to keep myself looking dead and still not bleed out."

"You sent the rest of your band to Jorrvaskr, didn't you?" Sullevan's voice was rising in volume, dropping in tone. My breath came in ragged pants as I tried to fight back the irrational tide of the blood surging past my defenses. I could smell my brother's anger, as well as that of the other men. All I wanted at that moment was to drink the blood of the man who had caused me to lose myself to the beast. Bugger their agendas.

"Might have. Heard your Harbinger was killed," Krev sneered over his blade. He looked my way and seemed to recognize me, his eyes narrow and cunning.

"You're responsible for the death of two of my sworn brothers, as well as countless others. Your head is mine for that," observed Sulle as he made ready to attack.

"No!" I heard myself shout, scarcely more than a growl. My rage was overpowering, looking at Krev, still alive and unchanged for the better, even after all these years.

The man I rescued from a werewolf turned his gaze to me once again. "You're that Breton my mother warned me would come back someday. I see you brought more of your filthy pack. Still pissed about your bitch getting skinned? I think you're just upset you didn't get to fuck her yourself; I heard she was pretty enough for an old bitch with saggy tits. You know they raped her before they cut her into pieces, right? Those big, vicious Nord men held your mama down-"

So red was my rage, I could barely see. It happened without thought, without the pain. It was a relief, actually. My wolf spirit exploded outward, shattering buckles on my armor and boots instantly. Glorious, powerful claws meant for rending flesh punched through my gauntlets. Towering over them now, I smelled my brother on the verge of his change, but his lover restrained him and forced him to help flank Krev.

Krev leaped at me without hesitation, but I was quick and leaped high, over the arc of the silver sword. My back claws punched into his shoulders and knocked him and myself to the ground. I recovered my feet before he did and spun around. I kicked his sword away and slammed him back to the ground with a few slashes of my massive clawed hands.

The fear he had been trying to mask filled his scent, an acrid stench that infuriated me and told me he was _prey_. Still, against his fear, he tried to fight, with a small silver dagger clutched in one hand.

"See, you're just a beast; giving into your rage makes you no better than the animals. Worse, you're human, yet you allow this monster to rule you. Monster, it's what mothers warn their children of. 'Ware the werewolves and other beasts of the night!" Krev's taunts never seemed to end, but I knew in the sliver of my rational mind remaining that he was trying to enrage me further and make me reckless. Plus the irony of it all was atrocious.

"You . . . made . . . me . . . this! YOU!" I roared with my coarse voice. "I saved . . . your life . . . you . . . the monster!"

As Krev picked himself up off the floor, he leveled an almost curious look my way. "Never will figure out why you did that. If our places had been reversed, I would have let you be torn apart. No sense in hurrying _my_ death. At any rate, you chose to take on a raging werewolf with your bare hands, not me. I didn't make you. But I am tired of talking to an animal; let us end this!"

I wanted to snap his neck and gorge myself on his heart, but I knew that was the beast in me, driving me to a place I didn't want to go. Still, I felt nearly helpless against this overpowering urge to kill, taste the sweet salt of his heart's blood, feel the crunch of his frail bones in my jaws.

I wanted to smell his last breath and see the light die in his eyes while I tore out his throat and eviscerated him. And even the dim, rational part of my mind knew that this man needed to die. He _deserved_ to die. But I could not slay him as a beast. Though it might be fitting, somehow I could not see my mother condoning my actions if I ripped the man limb from limb as I wished to. There were so many compelling and valid reasons why I could. Yet that was too close to how I was during those times when I lost control, back when I first was turned. And I had struggled so hard to master myself, it would be a betrayal of half of my life's work if I gave in now.

I took a few steps back and forced my wolf spirit back, allowing my body to shift to my natural shape, eyes never leaving Krev in case he decided to take advantage of me while changing. Sullevan and Vilkas had the man flanked anyway, so the Silver Hand wasn't making any sudden moves at the moment.

Sullevan chuckled darkly, "Gonna fight him in those scraps, huh? Impressive. Vilkas, avert your eyes. I can't have you being awed by the manliness of my big brother over there." I glanced down to the shredded remnants of my clothing and found nothing but the much loosened loincloth I wore under my trousers. I tightened that quickly and picked up my sword, feeling the familiar grip. Krev hastened to retrieve his own weapon, and we all allowed him that, even though he hardly deserved it.

I used a bit of magic to give myself some protection—my skin would now be as hard as ebony—and let him approach at his own pace. The rage was still there, but now tightly under control. The man known as The Skinner came in, blade poised.

I took a play from my brother's book and winked, blowing a kiss his way. It distracted the man enough that he hesitated a moment, which I took advantage of to sidestep his attack and give him a taste of lightning. He roared and stumbled but recovered quickly, spinning and lashing out with his sword. I was already out of range, and I jolted him again, watching in satisfaction as he twitched, trying to retain his grasp on the hilt of his sword.

So we danced around the room a few short moments, testing his abilities and weaknesses against mine. Not too interested in drawing this out much longer, I finally closed, avoiding a flurry of strikes and a bash or two from his shield and delivering a strike of my own to his upper left arm that made his shield sag. I stepped back again and used another spell, one which instantly caught Krev on fire.

The Silver Hand fell to the ground, writhing and shrieking. I ran him through with my blade to end the screaming, to end the menace this man represented, the terror one human could inflict on another. I did it with satisfaction, I will confess, but also with bitterness. Krev was right in some ways. I was a monster, or at least had that possibility within me. When I allowed myself to get carried away and be ruled by instinct and hunger alone, I was everything the Silver Hand feared and tried to eliminate.

It didn't help that I knew I had been trying to do something stupidly good by saving that boy. I had chosen to try to save him, and that action had earned me the cursed gift of the moon-blood. A part of me had spent years imagining this moment and the satisfaction I would feel. I suppose it was there, but not nearly as triumphant a feeling as I had envisioned. The Silver Hand were broken, their leader dead, and our victory had been paid for with a terrible price in blood.

In the end it was evident that Krev had spent his whole life absorbed with fear and hate, both instilled in him at a painfully young age, and by his mother, no less. I thought back to my own mother, an unthinking beast by the standards of the Silver Hand, and remembered the love she had for us all, the patience. I thought of my time as a captive of the Silver Hand and meeting Krev's mother, and I found myself feeling sorry for the piece of shit I just had to kill. He never knew a life without fear and resentment, never could move beyond, and for that I nearly wept.

Ma had always told me, when I fought with my brothers or other children, "Kill them with kindness, son. Sometimes all a bad situation needs is a kind word or deed. If kindness don't work, they aren't worth your time."

_Oh, ma, if only that had worked this time_. I cleaned my blade and sheathed it. Sullevan came up behind and offered me a pair of trousers. He made his choices, as did I. _Now we live or die by them_.

"She'd be proud of you, big brother," he said quietly.

"Thank you. She would be proud of you too. Sometimes I wonder what she would make all of this, though."

"Ah, she'd probably yell, and slap me upside the head, and hug you. Mama's boy." We both sort of chuckled at that, but none of us felt particularly humorous just then. The magical flames died back, and the three of us gathered up loot, the fragments of Wuuthrad, and our belongings before filing out into the blowing snow again.

Outside, the frigid air quickly flushed my cheeks and helped to cool my still-hot blood. Vilkas, who had been quiet, stepped up behind me and clapped my shoulder.

"You fought well, with courage and integrity–magic use aside. It must have been difficult to force yourself to face him as you did. Thank you for standing up to the Silver Hand with us and helping to retrieve the fragments of Wuuthrad. You bring yourself and your family honor. Well done."

I nodded, not trusting my voice, and smiled my own thanks.

"See, I told you not to go gawking at my brother when he was in his smalls! Now you've got your hands all over him. . . ." Vilkas' hand disappeared from my shoulder in a blink, though we both chuckled. Sulle never could stay serious for very long.

I tightened the last few straps of my armor and hefted my pack. "Don't be jealous now, Sulle. I'm not about to try to steal your man. I am starving, though, and will cheerfully knock you on your ass for a whole side of venison right now."

"Yeah, good luck with that. I'm not the wimp I was when we were kids," my little brother bragged, flexing his muscles playfully. "And you haven't even heard me Shout yet. You're not knocking this Dragonborn down,"

"Whatever you say, brother. Can we just get back to town? Still hungry . . ." We bantered most of the way back, fighting the sorrow that we recalled now. We still had to say goodbye to Kodlak, and I knew that mine would be the easiest. To Vilkas and Farkas, they would be saying farewell to the man who had raised them and instilled in them the values they still held to. Even Sulle had lost a friend and mentor at least.

Saying that last farewell was never an easy thing.

* * *

Drunken warriors sang at the top of their voices, out of tune, no one singing the same verse, and in Torvar's case, not even the same song. Kodlak had been bidden farewell and consigned to the flames of a pyre built in the heart of the Skyforge. All that was left now was a massive feast in his memory and allowing ourselves both to mourn and to revel in our victory, expensive as it was.

Earlier, the Circle had convened and decided something important. On the morrow, they would all travel to the tomb of Ysgramor and try to purify Kodlak's spirit of the taint of the beast blood. I had been invited on this journey and would accompany them north.

I withdrew from the warm brightness around the fire, seeking out the cooler reaches of the hall. I found Vilkas back there as well, drinking and reading a thick book.

"Had enough of the campfire sing-along?" he asked me.

"Aye, it was getting too warm out there. What about you?"

"I'm not much of singer, I'm afraid." He smiled briefly as he sipped his mead. "Will you be ready for tomorrow?"

"Aye, bright and early. Anything I can do to help?"

He shook his head and waved me off to where Ria was trying to get my attention. I sat next to her, accepted another mug of something alcoholic, and tried to ignore the small hand creeping up my thigh.

I eventually captured her fingers in mine and held them in place. She grinned and leaned forward, breath grazing my ear in a spine-tingling fashion. I looked into her playful, hungry eyes and nearly gave in. "Ria . . ."

She saw my wavering and correctly surmised, "There's someone, isn't there." A statement more than a question. She deserved the truth.

"There might be. We've become acquainted better recently, and if there is something there, I don't want to hurt her, or you either. Please, you are lovely and sweet, but would it offend you if we stayed friends?"

Her head tipped back and she let out a peal of bright laughter. When she had calmed herself a moment later she replied, "Of course, Philip. Friends, especially true friends like you, are hard to come by. You could have just tumbled me and left me, but you didn't. Thank you for being honest. It means a lot." She squeezed my hand and leaned up against me in an easy manner, while teaching me the words to the song Farkas was bellowing out. I sang along for a while, immersed in the brotherhood of the Companions, then retreated to the quiet of Breezehome, getting soaked by the summer rain on the way.

Tired, heart heavy, I entered the quiet home of my brother. Lydia was asleep upstairs, and once in the house I stripped off the wet clothing I wore and wrapped myself in my sleeping roll near the fire, ready to rest. As usual, rest eluded me, but eventually I slept, and the dream came.

* * *

_"Carefully now, keep an eye on 'im. He could go any time." I hear the voice of the man who had tried to save me advise from somewhere out in the fog. I realize I'm being dragged from my cell, legs trailing behind me on the ground. I am hoisted roughly to a table and they try to bind me. The feverish heat of my blood grows hotter as it races through my battered body, and I struggle to get free of this place. My captors hold my legs down in an attempt to restrain me._

_I am only dimly aware of this, so absorbed with the pain, the fire in my veins, days of thirst and hunger, the humiliation of my capture, grief for my mother and the family I'll never see again. I'm only vaguely aware of the men holding me, the flailing of my limbs._

_They continue the battle to tie me down while images from my life parade through my mind in a merciless loop. My heart hurts in my chest, hammering, I think I can feel it swelling, growing too large for my body. The heat isn't so bad any more, it's almost a comfort, the fire of blood raging inside. I feel less like I am dying now._

_To the contrary, all the blood, the fury –these serve to remind me that I still live. My arms still spasm, legs kick, stronger now than before. Somehow, in some strange way, I actually feel undeniably alive. The fogged discordance of my thought clears enough for one realization. I am not ready to give up after all, nor to die._

_"This is no good; get the silver," I hear someone observe nearby._

_I hear this and something inside me cringes and snarls at the mention of that bright metal. I can smell it, cold and bitter, promising untold agony. Something inside me snaps. No more! A feral scream tears out of my throat as I jerk free of the grasp they have on me and lash out with fists, nails, ready to bite if that will win my freedom._

_They shout and scramble away, and a slightly familiar male voice calls out, "He's turning, fuck it all! Protect yourselves, you scum!"_

_Crouching on the table they intended to bind me to and then further torture and kill me, I glance wildly about the room looking for an escape. I can smell the fresh air coming from the far passageway, but a half-dozen Silver Hand stand between me and the door._

_Absentmindedly I scratch my itchy skin and take a deep breath. Inside me is a beast that has lurked since before I was born, a birthright from my mother, one awakened by the bigots who surround me. They are all that stand between me and my freedom. I don't even make a conscious decision; it just flows. Agonizing, exhilarating, terrifying in how easily my beast form takes over and I am changing, irrevocably. It doesn't matter now. All that matters is killing them and escaping with my life._

_The wooden table creaks under my new weight. Instinctively, I bunch the powerful muscles of my body and leap off, straight for the throat of my nearest foe. Rational thought is driven away as I surrender control to the blood and let the beast do the thinking and reacting._

_This form is ideal for killing. Huge and vastly powerful, I am also inhumanly fast, armed with fang and claw. I feel the icy, excruciating kiss of their swords and a roar erupts from my throat, spittle flying from my maw, and my claws flash through their throats in retaliation. Corpses crumble to the floor, blood–sweet, delicious blood-flows in scarlet rivulets over the floor._

_My caged brethren scream and howl in delight and fury, craving freedom to savor the red offerings trickling nearby. They pace and shake the bars of the cells, trying to loosen them, break free. A dim part of my humanity whispers to the beast and I retreat closer to one of the cells, holding the body of my last victim before me as a grisly shield. The man I hold in my grasp is dangling limply, but the soft clink of metal jolts me with excitement. Keys!_

_I rip them free of his belt, toss them through the bars of the nearest cell, and return my attention to the meat advancing on me. Behind I hear scraping of metal on metal. My old cell mate is making good on my offer of freedom. The tumblers click audibly, and I smell him shift._

_"Shit, pull back and call for the boss; they're getting loose!" Panicked shouts accompany hoarse screams as my forebear and I tear through the remaining men in between us and freedom. I grab the last man standing with both hands, lifting him high so I can look him in the eye._

_"Do it, laddie. Kill me and get out, or one of us will do for you, I swear," says the man who tried to save me. My blood flows over my chest and arms, pattering quietly, almost unheard. He is calm outwardly, but I can smell the tang of his fear._

_Without hesitation I lean forward and rip out his throat. Dropping his still-twitching corpse, I leap over it and bound up the twisting passageway, following the tantalizing whiffs of fresh air. Together my forebear and I slay the guards at the door and tear the planks free of their hinges._

_We burst free with silence shattering howls. For an instant we sniff the nectar of the breeze, laden with promise of snow. Together we bound off, finally free. Gloriously alive, and so very hungry. The sun has just set, and we scent the chill air, noses twitching for a hint of prey. We run to escape the horror of captivity, baying to the bright moons as a hapless doe sprints from a nearby glade in panic._

_Salivating, we begin the hunt._

* * *

**Epilogue**

The little skiff rocked gently as it touched the pebbled shore of the island. Sulle jumped out and landed lightly in the icy scree lining the narrow strand. He steadied the boat as one by one we all climbed out and gathered our weapons and armor. The bulk of the island rose before us and blocked out the rising sun with its snow-clad stone.

Not far from the shore, we discovered the circular barrow and descend into the tomb of Ysgramor. Aela and Farkas both wandered about the small antechamber, quiet and awed by the dusty carvings and imposing statue of the founder of their brotherhood. Vilkas and Sulle spoke quietly for a short time, heads together, and we all pretended that we couldn't hear Vilkas bowing out of going further. Finally my brother leaned forward and captured Vilkas' scowling lips in a surprisingly tender kiss.

When they broke apart, my brother stepped over to where I was examining the empty-handed statue. Offerings had been dropped at its base, faded flowers and a few gems lying in the shadow of a cracked shield and rust-pocked sword. Ysgramor's likeness stood with hands spread apart, open–as if waiting for something.

Vilkas stepped forward and said, "Just put Wuuthrad in his hands."

Sulle pulled the reforged axe off his back and slid it into the hard fingers of the statue and stepped back. A muffled grating sound followed immediately, and a hidden door slid open. Aela and Farkas had finished equipping themselves and were waiting impatiently at the entrance to the tomb.

Sulle turned to me and said, "If this works and we make it back, if you want that is . . ." He trailed off uncertainly and dropped his gaze. "If this works, well we have an extra Glenmoril witch head if you want to cure yourself. It's why we invited you, so you could be free of the blood."

"Will you cure yourself, brother?" I asked softly.

"Still not sure. I like it, but I get so tired. I remember what it was like to get a full night of sleep, and it's damned tempting. Maybe when Vilkas is ready. But that is neither here nor there."

"Aye, we need to know if it will actually work. Watch your back, Sulle. Pa would skin me if I let you walk into a tomb and get turned into a corpse."

"Not likely. I'll be back, Phil. The gods keep a good eye on me."

"Someone needs to." I hugged him fiercely for a moment and then spun him about and shoved him in the direction of his waiting shield-siblings.

As they disappeared, Sulle called out, "Hands off my man and keep your trousers on or I'll Shout you off the top of the Throat of the World!" His ringing laughter was joined by the hoarse guffaws of Farkas, gradually growing quieter.

I turned to find Vilkas staring hard at the passage, perhaps battling the urge to pursue Sullevan and throttle him. I shrugged and dug in my pack, and I soon produced a few bottles of mead.

"I find being mildly drunk makes it easier to put up with him, don't you?" I tossed the man a bottle which he reflexively caught. I twisted off the cork of my bottle and raised it high.

"I pray for their success, and ask the gods to return our loved ones to us whole and healthy," I proposed.

Vilkas nodded, opened his bottle, and raised it up. The rounded bellies of our bottles clinked together as the big Nord said softly, "I'll drink to that. May the gods watch over our battles."

We tipped the bottles back and drank, honey and flowers dancing on our tongues as we settled down to wait in the dim dust for a slender ray of hope.

It was coming, we could both feel it. Smell it. No, _that_ had to be my imagination.

Fin

* * *

_Well, that's the last of it. Thanks to my lovely readers, and to PickleCharming for letting me play with her characters. As always, please don't forget to fave, follow and leave reviews!  
_


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